


head in the dust, feet in the fire (waiting on that morning sun)

by bravestyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Wordcount: Over 100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:09:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 100,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22110841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravestyles/pseuds/bravestyles
Summary: Slowly but surely, her only source of happiness becomes Harry.They become closer than what's healthy for either of them. Harry has nightmares, so when Louis' not over, Helen sleeps in his small, cramped bed with him. He refuses to shower without her in the bathroom with him (“I'm scared you're going to leave me when I'm in there,” he confesses one night). They become one unit, never too far apart from one another. Helen even picks him up from school everyday for lunch because if she doesn't, Harry will throw himself in a full blown panic attack that not even Louis can fix, only her.That's where things start to go bad. Harry becomes Helen's everything and more. She stops sleeping in Harry's bed just when he has nightmares and starts sleeping with him every night. He cuddles in close, always choosing to shove his cheek against her breast. Harry's sad, too, so he welcomes the extra affection. Until it becomes too much.or,From a young age, Harry was sexually abused by his mother, Helen. This is the aftermath.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 48
Kudos: 194





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> title: solider by fleurie
> 
> note: due to the nature of harry's mother in this fictional story, i changed her name to 'helen'. just so there's no confusion :)
> 
> disclaimer: this is a heavy fic. please don't read if you think you're going to be triggered by it. & none of this is true, and i don't know anyone involved in this story.

When Harry's seven, his favorite color is blue. It's the color of the sky, of his favorite truck, of his best friend's eyes. It's the color that his big sister Gemma's dressed in on her last day of secondary school, and it's the color of his folder at school. Louis' favorite color is blue, too, and Harry can't imagine not loving the things that Louis loves.

When his mother, Helen, asks Harry to pick what tie Robin should wear at his funeral, it's an obvious choice for him. He's not sure how Robin would like it, or how it will tie in together with the rest of his outfit, but Harry frowns and whispers, "Blue.” Helen smiles down at him and squeezes his hand. A comforting touch, nothing more than a promise that she will love him forever. She's always so scared he'll forget that, that his mind will only get more twisted as he grows and it'll convince him he's not loved. 

"He'd love it," she promises, easing his nerves. 

Harry just nods, because he still doesn't understand. He doesn't  _ get it _ . Robin was there one day, picking him up from school and driving him to the ice cream shop, and the next, he's dead.  _ Dead _ . It's a new word for Harry, and his teacher tells her students to write down new words they learn, but Harry doesn't write down this one. He doesn't like it, and he's not going to let a word he doesn't like taint his notebook. He's still too young to fully grasp it, but Louis tells him that dead means gone and never coming back. Harry trusts Louis' definition; Louis' nine and says that his dad is dead, too. 

Helen buys the tie and Harry demands to hold it; he wants to memorize the soft texture and silk material. She gives it to him and he wrinkles it between his too-tight grip, but she doesn't scold him, doesn't have the heart to. She brought Robin into their lives two and a half years ago, and Harry loved him so much already. She feared that Harry would be confused and start to lash out, yet only a few minutes after introducing Harry to Robin, Harry smiled and shyly showed him his Lego collection. She remembers the way she almost cried at how well Robin's hearty laugh and Harry's soft giggle blended together. 

And yet again, another person has failed Harry. First Harry's real father, and now Robin, even if he didn’t mean to.

Harry still takes her divorce with Des to heart, still cries when Helen explains to him that they will have two separate birthday parties for him and no, they aren't getting back together just because Harry asks them too. Sometimes she swears to herself that the divorce is the reason Harry's mind is so complex, that it's the reason some days he feels like he can't breathe from an imaginary weight on his chest, but she knows that's not true. She knows that she's just trying to find another reason to be mad at Des, which would be the easy thing to do. The truth is, Harry's always been a little skittish, a whole lot anxious, and had enough distress from the tiniest things to last him a lifetime. The divorce didn't cause it, it just made it worse.

Helen isn't shocked when Harry grows quiet and clingy while he adapts to not having Robin around. It's painful as she watches him maneuver around the house skillfully and hesitantly, like he's relearning it, like it isn't the same without him here. He has more trouble sleeping at night than usual, goes completely silent some days, even when Louis' over, and looks to her for approval in almost everything he does. 

When he has to do his math homework without Robin's help for the first time, he sobs and sobs and tells Helen to bring him back, just for this one problem. His face goes bright red, his bottom lip gets brutalized from his teeth, and she offers to help, but he throws his workbook off the table and tells her no, that Robin's the only one who knows how to do it. It's not true -- it's simple adding and subtracting -- but it probably feels true to Harry.

Helen swears to herself as she holds Harry that night that she'll never get involved with another man, not if it hurts her children.

Three months after Robin's funeral, she wants to take that promise back. She's just so, so lonely and sad all of the time. She's not sure she's ready for another man in her life, but she needs something, something maybe not as permanent. It's just, Gemma is always up in her room with that phone of hers, and her friends still give her that  _ oh, Helen _ look accompanied by a frown, so all she has is her Harry. 

Harry bakes with her, gives her his first real smile since the funeral. He tells her all about his day, about how Louis got in trouble because he talked back after not doing his work. He tells her that he doesn't like when Gemma ignores him, or how other kids at the school are mean to Louis. He shows her his favorite stars in the sky, and colors her pictures she tacks onto the wall. Sometimes Harry's anxiety and nervousness makes Helen sad, but being able to comfort him makes her so, so happy.

Slowly but surely, her only source of happiness becomes Harry. 

They become closer than what's healthy for either of them. Harry has nightmares, so when Louis' not over, Helen sleeps in his small, cramped bed with him. He refuses to shower without her in the bathroom with him (“ _ I'm scared you're going to leave me when I'm in there _ ,” he confesses one night). They become one unit, never too far apart from one another. Helen even picks him up from school everyday for lunch because if she doesn't, Harry will throw himself in a full blown panic attack that not even Louis can fix, only her.

That's where things start to go bad. Harry becomes Helen's everything and more. She stops sleeping in Harry's bed just when he has nightmares and starts sleeping with him every night. He cuddles in close, always choosing to shove his cheek against her breast. Harry's sad, too, so he welcomes the extra affection. Until it becomes too much. 

It's not like she wakes up and decides to touch him one day, it sort of just happens. Harry's in the shower, singing softly, and like she can't help it, she opens the shower curtain. It's always stays shut when Helen is in the bathroom while he showers, so this is new. He squeaks, covering himself with his hand, but when he sees that she's not wearing any clothes either, he's not sure what to do. She doesn't do anything but poke and prod a little, nothing that scares Harry. 

She does that the next night, scares him. When she comes into his room, Helen's wearing blue knickers and a silky top.. Harry has never seen his mum like this, but it's his  _ mum _ , and it's not she's done anything wrong. He looks at her, eyes wide, waiting for an instruction. 

She does do something wrong that night, something that scares Harry so badly that he nearly hyperventilates. He cries and cries and cries, because  _ what are you doing, Mummy? _ and  _ please stop _ ,  _ I don't like that _ ,  _ it feels weird _ . 

She doesn't stop, and eventually, with some manipulation and threats that always scare even herself, she convinces him that what they do isn't so wrong. That they're just  _ playing _ . And after Harry learns the rules, it becomes  _ fun _ . When Harry becomes frightened of her after the first night, she starts making it impossible to say no by not picking him up for lunch and not allowing him to eat dinner, sending him to bed hungry and scared. He can't handle the nightmares that always come when she's not there, so eventually, he lets her back into his bedroom. 

It's a secret, though; Helen reminds him of that every night. She brings him gifts that she calls toys and tells him that he can only play with them with her. "Just me," she tells him, smiling gently. "Not with Gems, not even Louis. Promise?" 

Harry is good at keeping promises.

He's a good boy. That's what his mother tells him. She manipulates his sensitive, overly-caring side to her advantage. Harry's not like Louis; Harry likes to follow rules and becomes shaken when he can't. He's born plagued with anxiety and fears of not being enough, and his mother only adds to the mess that is his head.

When Harry's fourteen, he still loves the color blue. It's still the color of his best friend's eyes, and of the sky, and of his favorite folder. But he discovers a new shade of blue, one that's mixed with red and wailing sirens, and he hates it. 

The only words that Harry's brain can manage to string together is  _ Gemma was supposed to be out all night. _

It starts off as a normal night. Harry's in the living room watching  _ Law & Order: SVU  _ on the telly whilst texting Louis things like ' _ do you really think its him???'  _ and ' _ what just happnd had to look away,, gross'.  _ Louis couldn't come over tonight to watch the new episode with him like he does every week, so they have resorted to texting each other their reactions. 

That is, until Gemma is running down the stairs, her high heels clanking on each step. Harry looks to her curiously, his brown curls shaking as he turns his head. She's dressed in tight black jeans and a low cut shirt. 

Oh, he thinks, immediately putting together the pieces. "You're going on with Niall again tonight?" Harry assumes, a small smile creeping onto his lips. Harry likes Niall, likes that he makes his big sister happy. He's nice and brings Harry treats from the movie theater he works at, and doesn't get annoyed when Harry won't leave them be like Gemma does. 

"Shut up, Haz," Gemma sighs, but she's smiling. It's May and she just graduated high school, and Niall is taking her out to celebrate. Niall graduated three years ago; he's twenty-one, now, working at the theater in between college courses. The Horan family has always been close to the Styles-Twist family, so Niall's not a stranger. They've known each other for as long as Harry can remember; the only thing that's new is the fact that his sister is dating him now.

The doorbell rings, and Harry smiles at the way Gemma's whole face lights up. She fixes her hair a bit before rushing towards the door, and Harry's heart swells.

"Bye, Gems! Tell Niall I said hello!" Harry calls, beaming at his big sister. His phone lights up from a text of Louis, and instantly, Harry's attention goes back to him. 

_ sorry not sorry Amaro is hot as fuck,  _ Louis texts. Harry's face burns; he's not embarrassed that his best friend is gay, it's just. Harry thinks Nick Amaro is hot as fuck, too, but he can't just  _ say it _ like Louis can. The two of them have done  _ stuff _ before, once, but they've never talked about it and it got Harry in a lot of trouble and that's really all Harry knows about liking boys.

As Harry types out ' _ omg Lewis STOp'  _ with a heart to make sure his good intentions pass through the text, Helen sits beside him. Harry jumps and shields his phone to make sure his mother can't see his text messages (he doesn't want to get in trouble again, his whole body aches from the memory of last time) before he realizes that she's not wearing any clothes, so it doesn't seem she'd care too much if she knows Louis is gay, anyhow. 

"Mum," Harry whispers, instinctively moving closer. He's completely forgotten about his show the second he notices Helen's fingers are dancing between her thighs. "Let me see."

She tuts, shaking her head. "You're watching your show, aren’t you, love?" Harry nods. "It's only got ten minutes left, I think you can wait."

And no, Harry can't. His mother has him practically trained to pop a boner whenever she's even  _ near _ . But he wants to be a good boy, because he remembers the time he wasn't and what had happened, so he sits quietly and finishes his show, gnawing on his lip to keep him calm.

When it's over, it turns out the bloke really, actually did do it and Helen is growing impatient. So, like they always do when Gemma is out, they play. They go to his bedroom with the blue walls and do things they shouldn't be doing. He's good, and good boys get rewarded, and everything's just  _ so fucking good _ , that Harry would bet his life it couldn't change. 

It does. Everything does. 

Neither of them hear Niall's car door slam, or Gemma shuttinging the front door, or Niall and Gemma saying they love each other. They don't hear much of anything, because Helen's got her head nestled between Harry's thighs, and Harry's seeing stars. So they don't hear the footsteps coming towards Harry's door because Niall has a chocolate bar for Harry. They do, though, hear Gemma's horrified shriek when the door swings open.

An ear-piercing silence takes over the room when Gemma stops yelling, aside from the shuffling of the covers as Helen moves away from her son. Gemma and Niall both look like they've seen a ghost, and Niall's clinging to Gemma's arm like she can do anything to stop anything of it. Niall's always had this glow of innocence around him, just like Harry, and for some reason, seeing him horrified scares Harry the most. 

The whole scene catches flame like a wildfire; once the leaves are on fire, there's no stopping it, no reversing time.

Harry feels like his entire body is on fire, can feel himself shaking  _ everywhere _ , and he's not surprised because he's terrified,  _ fuck _ . He's not even sure what he's done wrong, but he knows that it was supposed to be a secret better than he knows anything else. He's staring at Gemma with wide eyes, his fingers digging into his blue duvet and silently begging her to pretend like nothing has happened. If she would just turn around, everyone could pretend like nothing's happened. He doesn't know what's going to happen next, doesn't know if he should be running or crying or screaming. He sits and waits, chest heaving.

Helen is sitting on the edge of Harry's bed, still naked, staring out his window. She looks like she's already accepted the future's fate, but Harry can't, and he won't, because he's scared everything is going to change. Everything's been exactly the same for seven years, it can't change now. He's finally begun to show real progress in his mental health and everything seems a bit less shit, it can't change now.

"Go away," Harry begs, voice wavering on every syllable. He shoves the duvet over his naked body, feeling exposed. 

Niall and Gemma look sick. Proper sick, like they might actually throw up. It only adds to the panicked hammer of his heart.

"Gemma," Helen says suddenly, looking away from the window to her daughter. She stands up and Harry shuffles to the edge of the bed, trying to make sure his mother doesn't get too far away from him. It's like a string is attached to both of them, and it doesn't give much way. If it were to snap, if it were to break -- Harry would break right along with it. "Don't do anything you're going to regret." Her voice is calm and soothing, and it helps ease the fire on Harry's skin slightly. She always knows how to help him.

"Get away from me," Gemma stammers out, shaking her finger angrily. Helen doesn't listen, just tries to smile, and Gemma steps back. She bumps into Niall, who barely flinches. "Stay  _ away _ ."

Harry starts to cry, and Niall's staring at him like he's a ran over puppy on a freeway. Harry cries and cries, and watches as his mother and his sister have a silent conversation with their eyes. When Gemma's chin rises like she's decided something and Helen's shoulders deflate like she's given up, Harry's cries turn to heart-stopping sobs. 

"I'm calling the police," Gemma says harshly. She glares at Niall, though he's the only one who hasn't done anything wrong in this scenario. "Don't let her lay another hand on him."

Niall nods immediately and lets go of Gemma's arm reluctantly. Harry watches with wide eyes as Gemma pulls out her phone and walks out of his room. 

"No-o!" Harry howls, scrambling off the bed after his sister.  _ She can't, she can't, she can't _ . Their mother, who's back seated on Harry's bed, studies him sadly, like she's not willing to forget a second inch of him. Niall glares at her, finally breaking into action as if he'd rather die than watch her look at him for another moment longer.

Niall stops Harry from running after Gemma, because Niall knows what has to be done and Harry's still naked, and Niall will be ill if Helen keeps looking at him while he's undressed. "Harry, bud," Niall whispers, licking his lips nervously. He bends his knees so he's eye-level with Harry, and shit -- he still hasn't even had his fucking _ growth spurt _ yet. "Let's get some clothes on, yeah?"

Harry shakes his head wildly but Niall doesn't listen. He keeps a steady arm on Harry's arm so he won't take off as he bends over to grab Harry's discarded boxers on the floor. He goes to help Harry step into them, but he throws them like they're on fire once he notices they're stained. While grumbling profanities and cursing Helen's existence quietly, Niall takes off his hoodie and pulls it over Harry's shoulders. It's gray and faded, reading BULLDOGS on it, and it's baggy on Niall since it was his father’s, so it consumes Harry. 

Niall shudders at how small it makes Harry look. At how small Harry looks in general right now.

Whilst Niall's shakes his hands out and takes a deep breath, Harry uses it to his advantage and runs out of his room to find Gemma. He can't let her do this, has to try to get things to go back to normal. Maybe if he promises to be better somehow, maybe if he tries harder on his course work or chores, she'll stop.

Niall curses, but doesn't follow. He has to watch Helen. 

Harry speeds to a halt once he sees Gemma sitting on the couch where Helen had only a few hours before. Her face is paler than normal, and she's biting at her nails like she does when she's studying for exams. She speaks in a hushed, choked voice. "He's just turned fourteen. . . yes, I know. I know. . . okay."

His lip begins to wobble and he starts to scream, scaring the daylights out of Gemma. He runs at her and jumps on her lap, trying desperately to grab the phone from her hands. She stands on the couch and holds it just out of Harry's reach, like she does with the remote control when they're arguing, and Harry's still screaming, and now Gemma's crying again, and _ everything won't stop changing.  _

"Stop, stop!" he yells out at the top of his lungs and, "No! I didn't do anything wrong!" until his throat burns and his words are hoarse. He shoves at her shoulders, but she doesn't waver and steps off the couch. He follows, tripping only slightly, and shoves her again, and again, and again, and once he's realized he can't muster up the force to push Gemma more than an inch, he resorts to punching.

He comes at her nose with a closed fist and she gasps, ducking out of the way. Harry's always been so kind and so soft, so seeing him this way makes Gemma want to drown herself in her own tears. He's her  _ little brother _ . She grabs his arm once he tries to hurt her once more. Harry only continues to sob and shout. 

Things come to another silent halt when sirens are heard in the distance. Gemma and Harry stare at each other with wide eyes, and guilt eats at her stomach.  _ What has she done? _

Before she can tell herself that she's done the right thing, Harry is running back to his room. Niall's sitting on his swivel desk chair, chewing relentlessly at his thumb, while Helen, still undressed, sits on his bed, crying whilst holding Harry's duvet in her fingertips. 

Harry launches himself at his mother, barreling into her at full speed with a hug. She cries into his arm and he shoves his curls against her breast and just clings, knowing this will be the last time he'll probably ever see his mother again.

The woman who raised him, the woman who protected him and healed him for years will be taken away for something Harry doesn't even fully understand. He already deals with attachment issues and severe anxiety, nobody knows where this will take him.

"I love you, baby," she tells him, crying. "You were a good boy for me, okay? The best. Mummy loves you, don't ever forget that."

"I won't," Harry sobs, clinging and clinging and clinging. After a long minute, Harry can't help but whisper what he fears most. "They're gonna take you away."

"I know baby, but it's going to be okay."

Harry doesn't understand how any of this is going to ever be okay, but before he can ask, he's being ripped off of her by Niall. He's not gentle, knowing full well that Harry's going to put up a good fight, and they both come crashing down against Harry's gray carpet. 

"Shh," Niall is telling him, but Harry can't hear him; he's screaming again, on top of his flailing and thrashing about. Niall winces each time Harry elbows him or kicks him, but nonetheless keeps him away from Helen who's watching them with sad eyes. This is when Niall decides he needs to be the one to protect Harry, when he swears he won't let anything else bad happen to him ever again.

The room spins and he can't breathe anymore when two policemen enter his room with the blue walls and tell Helen that it's time to go. He goes suddenly quiet, his body trying and failing to get a breath in before his mother is taken away from him for no reason at all. 

They tell her to get dressed and she does. They guide her out of the room, and she gives him a small wave goodbye, and no. He doesn't just get a  _ wave goodbye. _ Harry sputters out coughs that drag some air into his lungs, frees himself from Niall's arms after a second or two, and he chases after his mother. Niall's fingers grasp at his sweatshirt, but it's too late. Harry's already out the door. 

He runs passed Gemma, passed the police men and woman, passed the gawking neighbors, and crashes into his mother's back once again. She's wearing handcuffs now, and they're nothing like the ones they play with, and Harry clutches onto her shirt. 

She tells him she loves him, and then he's being yanked away yet again. 

He falls into the arms of a female police officer, and this time he doesn't fight. His body sags into her chest as he tries to breathe. She wraps her arms protectively around him, and she's telling him to look away from his mother being driven away and to look at the blue sky. 

He decides he hates the color blue, and he's right: everything changes.

**。。。**

A loud, continuous knocking at the door is what he wakes to. His first instinct is to jolt in panic, to try and figure out if he's in danger, but that's nothing new. He's dealt with that initial panic his entire life. It barely registers in his brain as a problem -- the only problem in this situation is that he's barely gotten any sleep in pretty much the last year of his life, and his sister is waking him up. 

It's Gemma, he knows it is. Niall is always soft and careful around him; not hesitant or scared, but tentative about doing or saying the wrong thing. Harry appreciates it, even if he doesn't say so. 

"Harry! Harry. I _ told you _ to stop locking this door, and I  _ meant it _ , goddammit." She hits the door again, and Harry pulls himself out of bed to unlock the door. There's no reason to drag this out any longer than it has to take, and Gemma isn't one to give up. When he opens it, Gemma has an angry look on her face and a hand on her hip. 

"I'm not in the mood to argue," Harry whispers, looking anywhere but her eyes. He wonders if he'd hit her hard enough last night to leave a bruise, and then he decides there's no way he couldn't have. 

"It's your birthday," she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She's always giving him those now, only has real ones to share with Niall -- which, to be fair, Harry does the same. "Why would I argue with you on your birthday, baby brother?"

Immediately, he feels caught out. Defensive and stupid, because  _ he didn't know _ . He's fifteen now, he guesses. He doesn't know the day half the time anymore; since he dropped out of public schools and switched to online school, he doesn't even know the difference between a Friday and a Monday anymore. Breakfast has permanently been renamed brunch, he goes to bed at midnight on early nights, and he eats dinner when most kids are going to sleep. A lot has changed. 

He had turned fourteen two months before Helen was arrested.

Gemma walks into the room and peers around. He's sure she doesn't mean to, but she always look for signs of trouble everywhere Harry goes. It's not to be helpful or protective, either. It's to find any reason to be mad at him that's justified. Her eyes land on the unmade bed, and it causes her to frown. "You're not sleeping in here again, are you?" She sounds so disappointed. 

The first few months, Harry barely left Helen's room. It's a blessing that Gemma hadn't ripped the lock off then. Niall and Gemma slowly coaxed him out, like he was a scared animal. And in some ways, he was. He slowly began to start eating in the kitchen again, and now most nights, he sleeps on the couch. He hasn't stepped foot inside his old room since everything happened, because the idea of walking in there when a hundred different things would be begging to be remembered makes his throat tighten up, so Niall grabs anything he needs for him. 

Harry winces and curls his arms around his middle. This is the longest they've talked to each since without arguing before it happened. Most of the time, Harry can't even look at her without thinking  _ you're the reason she's gone  _ and when he's not ignoring her, they're arguing profusely and he's trying to hurt her. 

Harry doesn't know why, but when he's mad, he's resorted to violence. It's a complete one-eighty from the gentle, kind child who wouldn't dream of harming a fly. When he's upset, he throws things and kicks and hits and he can't understand  _ why. _ He's fourt--  _ fifteen _ , not  _ five. _ But something devours him and turns him into a stranger, and the next day he's always stuck wondering what's wrong with him.

His therapist tells him that he's trying to get back some control over his life. Like most things she says, he thinks it's bullshit. He's just fucking insane, he's decided. Because even before everything fell apart, he was screwed in the head. Nancy asked him why his mother hadn't taken him to a therapist before her, before now, and Harry couldn't figure out the answer. Clearly, his brain had been doing itself in -- Nancy calls it's severe generalized anxiety, mild obsessive compulsive disorder, depression, and major complex PTSD -- even when he was a little boy, so why had his mother never thought to change any of it?

Turns out, she did. Gemma told him that night when he asks that she took him to a therapist or two when he was five and refusing to go to school, and they all told her it was simply a bit of an attachment issue, that he was a Momma's boy. And they said it should go away, and if it doesn't, come back in four to six months, and Gemma says that they came back when he was seven and had his first panic attack. The doctors said he was just shy, and Helen had got so sick and tired of hearing strangers over simplify her child's issues that she gave up. 

Two therapy appointments in two years; that's all the hassle he was worth, apparently. 

"I like it in here," he whispers finally, looking around carefully. Most of his mother's things are gone now, since Gemma got mad one night and broke or threw everything away that she could before Niall calmed her down, but Gemma hadn't touched her drawers so Harry isn’t too upset. "It reminds me of her."

Gemma's jaw clenches. "That's why you should hate it in here."

And this is where their conversations end and their arguments start: Harry's still in denial that his mother had ever done anything wrong in the first place. He knows  _ now _ that it's not the preferred method of parenting, of teaching right from wrong, but it helped. Gemma says he's an idiot because of it when she's mad, but turns around and tells him gently that's he's just confused when she's not.

That's one thing he'll agree with her on: he's bloody confused. Because he knows if he heard of another kid being in his situation, he'd feel sorry for them. Since it's him, it's different, though. He knows his mother. He knows she was trying her hardest, and it's not like she was abusive. (When he says this to Nancy, she looks pained when she tells him that sexual abuse is still abuse.) And aside from one time, it was  _ fun _ , what they did, and Harry doesn't exactly miss it, but. Everything was just easier then, and now everything's so much harder, but everyone is telling him that he's safe now. He doesn't exactly feel safe. He feels lonely and sad and like shit, pretty much all of the time.

He narrows his eyes. "Is there a reason you knocked?" 

She huffs, putting both of her hands on her hips. He fucking hates it, the way she tries to do her best impression of Mum. Gemma's not Helen, no matter how many times she gives him that look. "Yes, actually. I know it’s your birthday, but Child Protective Services are coming today for a not-so-surprising surprise visit. They want to make sure you're doing okay." She gives him a stern look. "So make them think you're doing okay."

A part of Harry doesn't want to argue, because she's right. For once, she's looking out for what is best for him. Even if Harry's still a bit out of his mind, it'll only get worse if he gets tossed in the foster system. But the other part of him screams in red, hot anger,  _ she's trying to make you forget _ . Forget their dad, their mum, his best friend. And he can't forget them, especially since memories are all he has left of them anymore. 

She's telling him to forget that he's not being raised by two kids who don't know what they're doing and who can't agree on the best parenting technique. She's asking him to forget that Helen's in prison because of him, that Robin's dead, and that his father ate a bullet when he heard the news,  _ because of him.  _ She probably doesn't want Harry to forget Louis, because Louis was always good for him, but she doesn't exactly encourage him to stop ignoring his best friend out of fear, either.

And he won't -- he won't do any of it. He needs to remember them all, every detail, or he'll become nothing. 

After Helen was arrested and the neighbors got bored and dispersed, Harry was still trembling in the arms of Elise, the police officer who refrained him from getting to his mother. He didn't want to let go, for some reason, and she wasn't going to be the first to release him. She wasn't going to neglect him any further, so they sat there on the sidewalk for hours. 

Her partner left when he realized she wasn't going to leave him. The neighbors were all inside, even if they were still gawking from their windows. Gemma went down to the police station to file a report, and Niall had gone inside to make dinner after about an hour. 

It was just the two of them and Harry's labored breaths that never seemed to even out until Gemma got home and pleaded for him to come inside. She said that they've all had a long enough night and asked him not to make it any harder, so he listened and let Elise finally go home. 

Point is, she had made it her duty to look out for him. She's the one who gives them heads-up about their home visits, and she's pretty much the only reason why Harry got to be adopted by Gemma and Niall.

In the beginning, the chances of Harry getting lost in the foster system were large. It was only Gemma trying to adopt him initially, because Elise said having Niall as a boyfriend rather than a husband might complicate things if they tried adopting him together. Gemma was only eighteen at the start, and already struggling enough with keeping up with the house payments with her shitty part time job at the dinner down the street. The judge deemed her unfit, but then Niall stepped in and offered to adopt Harry with her.

Niall was twenty-one at the time, and had gotten a full time job at Ford. He lived in a spacious flat with a friend, and Harry and Gemma could have moved in for cheaper rent, which never ended up happening because Harry cried and cried for days at the thought of leaving home. And to make their case better, Niall had known and adored Harry since Harry had been five. He knew everything there was to know about Harry, and if he didn't, he promised he'd do his best to learn everything else. The judge agreed to it after a good word from Elise, and now, the only thing to worry about is fucking up home visits from CPS.

Elise says this should be their last one for a while. 

Harry knows this is probably the only option that leads to him having a chance of a better life. The only better option would have been living with Des, Gemma and Harry's biological father. But the Styles men must be terribly fucked in the head, all of them, because approximately eighteen minutes after Gemma called him and told him what was happening, what Helen did to Harry, he shot himself in the head. Just like that, everyone who Harry had left to call his parents were gone, and all it took was forty-eight hours. 

Everyone eventually vanished from his life -- his teachers, his friends from school,  _ Louis _ . 

Louis tried so hard, so hard, to keep connection with Harry. Texts, calls, emails, home-visits -- he tried everything. But the thought of having to tell Louis what happened was so scary that Harry just shut him out. The press hadn't picked up Harry's story, so Gemma sparked the rumor that Helen stole some money at work and got caught. The town ate it up and left them be, but Louis wasn't so willing. 

_ we're best friends Hazza _ , one of Louis' texts wrote.  _ i go to college after this school year- if we don't sort this out now we're never going to see each other again. i can't lose you. i know u are going through a really hard time but i can help you through it. pls let me. you're like my only real friend pls dont push me away. love u. _

That's what most of them said, at least the gist of it, but sometimes Louis got so  _ mad _ . 

_ For once is your entire goddamn life, get your head out of your arse and stop ignoring me. You're making my mum go absolutely crazy not knowing if you're okay. Gemma's texts aren't enough for her or me. I don't know what the fuck gives you the right to completely shut me out, but don't you fucking dare hurt my mum like this. _

It's one of the last text Harry had ever received from Louis, the last one being a short  _ love you. Always _ . Louis fought hard not to lose Harry, but after six months of constant visits, calls, and texts, Louis gave up. Harry hasn't talked to his best friend since they were texting about _ Law & Orde _ r, which seems so silly now. So childish. 

He can't tell Louis what happened, though. Louis loved Helen like a mother, he couldn't do that to Louis, couldn't show him another way parents can fuck up. Louis' onto his second step-dad now, and has always told Harry how he had such great parents, and that he shouldn't take them for granted. Looking back, it makes Harry's stomach churn. 

"Harry," Gemma scolds, sounding tired. "Not today, okay? Niall is going to be home early and he'll have lunch made before CPS come. Elise said they'd be around at one, and it's ten o'clock now. Will you please help me clean?"

Harry shrugs, but stops mid-movement when he catches sight of the bruise blooming on her cheekbone. He's going to accidentally break something one day, fuck. Why can't he control himself? How can one person be so fucked up?

She must notice, because she's waving her hand. "Don't worry about it, I'll cover it."

"You shouldn't have to," Harry whispers, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry." Hitting Gemma is the only thing Harry'll ever apologize for nowadays. 

She smiles, and this time, it's genuine. "You're getting help, Haz. That's what counts, yeah? Your therapist says this new medication you're on should help with your outbursts."

Harry rolls his eyes a little. "Nancy says a lot of fucking shit."

She laughs,and it sounds easy. For some reason, it makes Harry's stomach twist. "I know, trust me. But your new prescription of antidepressants seem to be working; you don't sleep all day now, and you don't seem as distant. That counts for something, right?"

No. No it doesn't. Not when there is a bruise on his sister's cheek and he's the owner of it. He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs loudly. "I have school work to do. Can I help you clean after I finish?"

She doesn't look pleased, but she nods anyways. She knows not to push Harry too far these days. Nancy says that Harry asks for things indirectly, and that it's important to keep watch for it.  _ Maybe later? _ means _ I need space right now. _

_ " _ I'm going to start cleaning in here, if that's fine?" 

Harry's chest tightens. He can feel his heart stutter and his entire body go warm, and only then does Harry realize he hasn't taken his medication this morning. The antidepressants are shit, but the pills that help with his anxiety are a fucking blessing. He wishes he had them sooner; maybe then eighty percent of his childhood wouldn't have been consumed by fear.

Harry takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself down enough to have a level-headed conversation with her for once. "Please don't throw anything else away," he pleads, lip wobbling. He catches it with his teeth for a moment. "I know you hate it but I need to know that she's not gone, that's she's still here."

Any other time, any other day, she would've laughed in his face. Maybe it's because it's his birthday, or the fact that she can see how hard he's trying not to lose his shit on her right now, but she just sighs quietly and promises, "I won't, Harry. I promise."

Harry nods, sips on the oxygen his lungs are burning for and slips back into bed. He grabs his laptop off of the side dresser and opens it, logging into his school account to get started on his work. He feels Gemma staring at him, causing him to look up and see what's the matter.

She gives him a small smile. "You're doing a lot better lately, Haz."

Harry nods stiffly and doesn't tell her that he had a panic attack over absolutely nothing last night, and it was so bad that his hands went numb and he thought he was going to faint. Maybe he shouldn't give too much credit to those anxiety meds, after all. He doesn't tell her that his misses their mum so much he can barely breathe, even ten months later, and he most certainly doesn't tell her that Nancy thinks he's getting better, too, because he doesn't want to be too much of a let down when he doesn't.

Harry begins to do his math assignments, and he can't believe it used to be his favorite subject. He fell behind with the assumption he could just catch back up easily, but he couldn't, and he still hasn't been able to. Niall's shit at math and Harry refuses to ask for help from Gemma, so he just suffers in silence and gets frustrated when he gets bad test scores. 

He's trying to learn how to complete a fucking square when Gemma opens a drawer next to the bed, gasps, and falls backwards. Harry, concerned, sits up and pushes the laptop off of his lap, cranes his neck to see what's in the drawer. He's a bit curious, because he doesn't go through Helen's drawers when he's in here -- she wouldn't like it and he still tries to be good for her, so he has no clue what's so shocking about the bottom drawer of the nightstand until he looks for himself.

He's stomach lurches when he finds out. Instantly, he scrambles off of the bed and plants himself ungracefully in front of the dresser after slamming the bottom drawer shut. Gemma's breathing heavily and looking at him with wide eyes, and it reminds him so much of how she looked  _ that _ day, he feels like he could puke.

"Don't look in there," Harry pleads breathlessly, for no real reason. Gemma has already seen, and she'll tell Niall and they both will never forget. It's going to be one of those things that will humiliate him and make him ashamed every time he thinks back on it, and fuck. This was supposed to be one of his good days. 

Gemma shakes her head and sits up on her knees, inching towards Harry. "Move, Harry. They're not fucking staying in there." Her voice is ice, like she actually thinks he's going to put up a fight about getting rid of it all.

His whole body is trembling, but he forces it to nod anyway. "I know. I know." He can't breathe. Memories are running up and down his arms, and even though he doesn't think Helen did anything wrong, he doesn't like to remember. He's pretty sure he'll never get to the point of wanting to forget her, but that doesn't mean he wants to remember what they did together. It's mortifying. "Just don't look at them. Please."

"I need to throw them away, Harry."

Harry coughs out a sob and he shakes his head wildly, clenching his eyes shut. He presses the palms of his hands into his eyes, hard. The handle of the drawer is digging into his back, and in the normal occasion in where he's having an anxiety attack, or about to, he'd try to use that to ground himself. Right now, he doesn't think anything could. 

He had no idea they were in there; now that he thinks about it, he never knew where his mother kept their toys. He just knew that she had them and she'd come into his room late at night with one in hand, sometimes, and most of the time, they made him feel good. The fact that Gemma has another one of Helen and Harry's puzzle pieces makes Harry want to crawl underneath her bed and never come back out.

He never wants her to know everything about what they did; he'd rather die. 

"I'll throw them out," he promises, tears steadily leaking down his cheeks, his hands not being enough to keep them away. "Just-- don't look at them again. Fuck, Gemma, just get out." He opens his eyes and sees Gemma staring at him just like their gawking neighbors did, just like they still do in the rare occasions he leaves the house. It's all too much at once --- it was supposed to be a good day, fuck -- and he genuinely doesn't think he can be blamed when he shouts at her to get the hell away from him, to get the fuck out.

Gemma purses her lips and shakes her head. She inches forward and Harry flinches, but he lets her hug him because even though he hates her and think she ruined his life, he needs someone,  _ anyone _ , to hold him together right now. He fists her shirt in his hand and sobs into her neck, her fingers clutching onto his ever-growing curls as she shushes him gently. 

"I don't get it," she whispers into his hair, voicing her confusion instead of focusing on soothing him. "You don't think she's done anything wrong, but you're so ashamed of what happened."

Harry cries harder at that -- he doesn't get it either, really. It's not the point right now, though. He needs someone to comfort him, someone who can parent him right for once, and all he has right now is Gemma. 

Gemma's not good at this, even when she tries. She's not supposed to be a parent so soon, especially not of her broken teenage brother. She still treats him with the soft brutality of an older sister, and even though Niall has tried to make her understand that she can't do that anymore, she doesn't listen.

She still bosses him around in the way that older sisters do, pushes his buttons even when he tells her to stop. She refuses to see her brother as anything other than the soft, loving child he was in her eyes not too long ago. She isn't familiar with the rough, jagged edges of Harry's new skin, and she doesn't try to be. Gemma wants her brother back, and won't accept that the person Harry was is now gone probably for the better. 

By the time Niall gets home, the house is still unclean and Harry's still crying into Gemma's neck. His sobs have softened to sniffles by now, though, and when Niall finds them curled up together on the floor, he has no idea what happened. He often finds himself coming home in the midst of one of Harry's meltdowns, and he scrambles to take care of it  _ and _ figure out what (or who) started it at the same time.

It's exhausting.  _ Niall's  _ exhausted. And Harry can see it, too, and he's bloody terrified he's going to get sick of him one day.

"Hey, guys," Niall whispers, careful not to break the rare peace between Gemma and Harry. He comes over and crouches down next to them, desperately trying to guess what could have happened. Gemma's not crying, so Harry couldn't have hurt her. Nothing's broken, expect maybe for Harry. There's no telling signs of what happens, and by the looks on both their faces he's not going to find out right now, either. 

Harry untangles himself from Gemma's limbs and shuffles over to Niall instead. Niall winces, knows that Gemma hates how Harry likes Niall best, but he's not going to push him away. He lets the lanky, growing fifteen year old boy onto his lap and holds him gently.

He's always so unsure with Harry. He's forced to not only make sure Harry stays sane, but also to navigate through things Gemma knows already. He has to learn on his own how Harry likes his eggs in the morning, why he asks a million times when Niall will be back home (his attachment issues to Helen have now relocated to Niall), of sore subjects not to touch. He's got the obvious ones down, but he doesn't know not to talk about school or their cat who passed years ago that for some reason left a terrible bruise on Harry's heart. It'd be so much easier if Gemma could step up more, but Niall's practically on his own most of the day. He wonders how she thought she could handle Harry on her own.

To try and lighten the mood, Niall whispers him a mumbled happy birthday. Harry only nods.

After realizing she's not needed anymore, Gemma rises to her feet and resumes her cleaning. She avoids the bottom drawer like the plague, even when Niall coaxes Harry out of the bedroom for a shower, and trusts that Harry will take care of it before the social worker comes. 

As part of the new normal, the idea of being around a person other than Niall or Gemma or Nancy makes Harry's nerves feel all wound together and tightened, even after he takes his medication. He's showered and dressed, but for some reason, even in a sweatshirt and sweats, Harry feels exposed and vulnerable. 

As he picks at his cuticles, he idly wonders if that's because of Helen. But then he remembers that even before she started touching him, some days he'd feel the same way in an outfit for no reason and he'd change before he had to leave for school. 

He thinks about changing now, but then the doorbells ringing and the atmosphere shifts. Niall and Gemma tense before exchanging a wary eye look, and Harry's stomach plummets. 

A seemingly nice man named Oliver is the one who comes. Gemma chats with him politely and Niall offers him tea as Harry stays on the couch. He puts on a stiff smile and forces himself not to pick at his fingernails, but it's hard not to.

He does his best to answer Oliver's questions convincingly, because no, Niall and Gemma don't smoke at all, but that doesn't mean Harry's nerves won't might make it look like he's lying. He tries not to be too tense or awkward and fails miserably, but Oliver seems to understand Harry's situation and sympathizes with him. 

By the time Oliver leaves, it's one-forty five and Harry's absolutely drained. Having a stranger poke around his business, his  _ house _ , goes against every single one of Harry's instincts. Oliver asked personal questions, questions Harry's never been asked before by anyone other than his therapist.  _ How do you find yourself adjusting? Are you given access to water and food at all times? Do they hurt you?  _ are easy, but  _ Do you still miss your mother? Have you been sexually active ever since? Have you seen a doctor in the last thirty days to re-examine the rectal tearing written on your record?  _ are hard. He doesn't want to talk about it, and yet it seems like it's constantly the topic of discussion. 

His nerves are shot and he feels frail, so Niall lets him curl up on the couch until late-lunch is ready. Niall never had the chance to make it before the social worker came. 

Harry tries to relax on the couch, and he's almost completely calmed down until he hears bits and pieces of the conversation they're having in the kitchen. It's about him, of course it is, and it's about the fucking sex toys Gemma found, and God, did she really have to tell him before Harry's going to have to look him in the eye for a half hour straight?

Niall looks wounded when he tells Harry's lunch is done, and Harry doesn't know if it would be better or worse to bring it up. Niall looks like he wants to say something, so Harry looks at him pointedly until he finally spits it out. 

"Just, like," Niall starts. He looks uncomfortable and upset, and a twinge of guilt flickers across Harry's heartstrings. "I'm sorry, Harry. Really. If any one of us had opened our fucking eyes for one goddamn second, we would've saw what was happening." He shakes his head, a small, humorless laugh tumbling from his lips. "Seven years is a really long time to keep a secret, especially for a kid."

Harry doesn't like what Niall's implying, because it wasn't like that. It is probably impressive for a seven year old to keep a secret so well, but Harry wasn't a typical kid; he thrived off of listening to orders, a people-pleaser in every definition of the word. And if Niall thinks for goddamn second that he could've stopped any of it (a small voice in the back of his skull tells him there was nothing to stop, that nothing was wrong and everyone's being dramatic) then he's wrong, because Harry didn't know. He didn't know anything was wrong. He still doesn't know that for certain. 

"That's not what I'm saying," Niall quickly corrects, eyes sharp like he really means it. "I'm saying, like -- you were a kid, yeah? If any of us thought to poke and prod a bit at certain subjects, there's no way you wouldn't have spilled. I mean, did you even know about consent and shit like that?"

Harry shakes his head. Not when it started, at least. No one had told him that if he said no, then the person should listen. He didn't know consent wasn't a suggestion. He should've known something was wrong about that, and he didn't. 

It further adds to the guilt on Niall's shoulders. "I should've noticed something was off, or at least Gemma should've or something. My parents were around here enough, we -- " He furrows his eyebrows, face pulled into clear confusion. "How the hell did Louis not know, how -- "

"Don't blame him," Harry snaps, sitting up. "It's not his fucking fault. He couldn't have known."

Niall nods wildly. "Of course, that's not what I'm saying. He was a kid too, yeah? It's just." He leans against the door frame, and shrugs a little. "Feels like everyone who should've been looking out for you failed.  _ Literally  _ everyone."

It makes Harry uncomfortable, the unforeseen apology. Niall and Gemma both spewed their plea that night she was arrested, said they couldn't have known, but besides that, there's not been a direct apology for it. He thinks it's a load of shit, of course; he's the one who kept the secret, he's the one who didn't and still doesn't completely understand why it's wrong. The only time he thought  _ shit, maybe I need help _ was the night his mum hurt him, but even then, when he crawled into Gemma's bed bawling, he didn't tell her. He could've told her; it could've all stopped that night. 

He didn't, though. And maybe it's because he didn't actually want it to end. He's still not sure. 

"Right, sorry," Niall says, letting out another flat laugh. "I'm venting, I don't mean to pour this all on you it's just -- " he nods, and repeats, "Lunch is done. Come eat, please."

But Harry wasn't feeling up for eating before Niall had laid that on him, and now the idea of forking down a plate of food sounds like too much effort. Despite his lack of wanting, he pulls himself off the couch and heads to the kitchen, and it's worth it because Niall lets out a relieved sigh behind him. 

During lunch, his mind wanders to school. Unlike most kids, school wasn't too bad for him. High school, anyway, although he was only there for a year. By that time, he had gotten his shit together a little, had figured out how to calm anxiety attacks and talk to people. Somewhere along the line, he became a bit more outgoing in his select group of friends, and he'd made a place for himself there. His teachers all adored him. He wasn't someone people grumbled about when they got partnered up with. He was respected, for the most part. 

Of course, there were some things said about him that he wishes weren't, some small black dots on his reputation. He had a panic attack in biology once, which was incredibly embarrassing because everyone stared at him as he quickly left the classroom, his friend Zayn in tow. And his friends weren't exactly high up on the food chain; Liam was quiet and painfully awkward, Nick was too loud, Zayn gave off _ I'm-better-than-you-and-I-know-it _ vibes, and Louis, well. Louis is one of those kids who was fucking trampled on during high school. 

It never made sense to Harry. He loves Louis with everything he has, and he still thinks Louis' pretty much the best person to ever exist. He's funny and smart when he wants to be and talented and strong, so strong, and Harry thinks that's about everything that makes a person good, but if that's true, then why was Louis treated so poorly?

"Harry," Gemma says harshly, like it's not the first time she's called his name. He glances at her, bored. She sets down her plate of seconds and sits back down at the dining room table across from him. "Eat, seriously. I'm not letting you get an eating disorder, too." She ignores the look Niall gives her. 

Harry blinks. "I'm not sure that's how it works." 

Niall opens his mouth to try and avoid the argument that's already forming, but Gemma beats him to it. "Stop talking back and just eat your food. Niall made it for us, so eat them."

"It's grilled cheese sandwiches," he scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Don't act like it's some -- "

"Be fucking grateful," demands Gemma, and Niall drops his fork down and puts his head in his hands. 

Sometimes, he feels like Gemma doesn't even try with Harry. She says and does things that are so obviously going to upset Harry. It's like she does them on purpose. Which -- maybe that's not fair to say. Maybe she just doesn't know what to do. But Niall's been living with them for only a handful of months and he already knows how to navigate through Harry's emotions fairly well, so there's no reason for it.

Predictably, Harry slams his hand down on the table. That anger's there, the one that all but consumes him, Harry can feel it. It's burning at the base of his brain and it only needs a little bit more of a kick to get going. "Are you kidding me? Be grateful? For what, exactly?"

"For having a roof over your head and food on your plate. For having two people who revolve their lives around you. For -- "

And that's all it needs, really. Harry stands, his chair slides back loudly, bumping against the wall. "Fuck that, you don't give a shit about me. Neither of you do. So don't try to guilt trip me."

Niall looks up, eyebrows furrowed. "That's not true, Haz."

"Yes it is!" Harry insists, face turning red. It's not, he knows it's not, but he almost wishes Niall didn't care about him. Niall didn't know what he was getting himself into when he agreed to adopt Harry, it's not fucking fair. "The only reason why you're here is because you fucking felt bad for your girlfriend's little brother. That's it." That's not true, either. Niall adores him, loves him like his own. He's just so  _ angry _ .

Gemma stands now, too. "Don't yell at him, Harry.  _ He's _ not the one who's done something wrong."

And again, there it is. Gemma constantly manipulates conversations so they resort back to what a monster Helen supposedly is. Niall's half convinced Gemma _ wants _ Harry to completely shatter, because each time the two siblings have this argument, Harry loses it a little more. 

"Mum didn't do anything wrong!" Harry hollers. He takes a few steps closer to Gemma causing Niall to stand, having gone through this too many times to know what happens when doesn't act as a barrier between them. "She  _ loved  _ me. Just because you don't understand it, just because she did it differently -- it doesn't make it not true."

"She  _ used  _ you, Harry. She didn't love you, she was just -- "

Tears start to swell in Harry's eyes. That's not right, it can't be;  _ Mum loved me, Mum loved me, Mum loved me _ . "Shut up!"  _ She just doesn't understand, she just doesn't understand. _

Gemma doesn't even seem to hear him. Maybe the rage Harry feels is in Gemma, too. Maybe neither of them can stop themselves from tearing the other down. "She was just lonely because Robin died and Dad didn't want to talk to her anymore. She took advantage of you and used you, Harry. She didn't fucking love you."

" _Stop_ _it!_ ' Harry pleads, rushing forward with fists clenched. He runs right into Niall, who holds down his arms and let him struggle against him weakly. He's stronger than Harry still, even if he's catching up to him in height.

"I hope they find out what she did to you, Harry," Gemma says coldly. "Not even prisoners like child molesters. They'll do the same thing to her that she did to you."

_ Oh. _ Harry's never thought of that, he -- he's put his own mother in harm's way.  _ He  _ did that. His mother promised him he was good, but putting her in harm's way isn't  _ good _ . 

Niall grunts, trying to keep Harry from attacking Gemma but it's hard. Harry's only fifteen, but he's been growing a fucking lot lately, and it's getting harder and harder for Niall to hold him back. "Gemma, goddammit,  _ stop it _ ."

Gemma doesn't stop. "She probably doesn't even think about you. She probably hates you."

Harry's on the edge of having an anxiety attack now, his vision going slightly blurry, his head light, but he doesn't stop throwing himself forward. Niall is trying to tell Harry to calm down, but Harry isn't listening. Gemma won't stop and neither will Harry; it just depends on who crumbles to their knees in defeat first. 

Still, Niall tries because he's a good guy trapped in a terrible situation. He loves Gemma with all of his heart, but he hates how she gets this way. She turns nasty, evil. "Gemma, seriously, you need to stop it. He's already had a bad enough day, don't make it worse."

Harry let out a sob so loud, it makes Niall's ear ring. Niall's always stunned at how one person can hurt so much, so badly. He's never witnessed someone cry so much, or have multiple panic attacks in one day, or sob so loud his throat goes hoarse. All of that's enough to make Niall's head spin, but Gemma barely blinks. Maybe she's used to it.

"She was my mother, too, Harry. And look what you made me do. This is all your fault."

And Harry's the one to fall first in this argument. He finally gives up on trying to hurt Gemma and slumps against Niall's chest. He can't think straight thanks to lack of oxygen, but his head is spinning and throwing around Gemma's words violently. Niall desperately hopes Harry's blood is rushing too loudly in his veins to hear what Gemma had just said, because it's so, so far from the truth but Harry will believe every word of it. (Harry heard it, and it might as well be tattooed into his skin for the rest of his life.) 

_ This is all your fault. _ He knew that already, he did. It's nobody's fault but his, but to hear someone -- his own sister -- say something so harsh out loud is more painful than anything could ever be. 

The room becomes quiet aside from Harry's gasps for breath and Niall's quiet shushing. Gemma sits back down and resumes eating like nothing happened, like she hadn't just destroyed Harry. She gives into the anger and once it's finally all out, she wants to pretend she was never mad.

Just hours ago, the social worker was telling her how good of a job she was doing. If only he could see them now. 

Harry hears them arguing that night. The walls aren't that thin, but Niall's voice is loud when he's mad. It's rare, and Harry's pretty sure he'd explode if he was ever on the receiving end of it. Niall sounds so tired, and he fights so hard to defend and protect Harry that it makes Harry actually feel loved for a few seconds. 

"He's just a kid, Gemma!" Niall shouts. "He's fucking fifteen years old, and he's already had to deal with too much."

"So have I, Niall. Have you not thought of that?"

"You aren't the one who Helen hurt, Gemma. God _ fucking _ damn, how selfish are you? It's his fucking _ birthday _ . He's carrying too much guilt for one person, and you've gone and made that a hundred times worse."

Harry cuddles Helen's pillow closer and closes his eyes. Niall's the only one in the whole world who even has a taste of understanding. 

"His therapist says he's doing fine," Gemma fires back, like what a stranger who sees him twice a week for one hour knows anything. "He's already on medication and in therapy, what more do you want me to do, Niall?"

"Nancy also said that he most kids with cases like Harry's have serious thoughts of suicide. The fuck would you do with yourself if he fucking _ killed _ himself? And therapy and medication isn't enough, _ clearly _ . He needs a positive home environment with supportive people. He needs you not to tell him that this is his fucking fault."

"It is!" Gemma sounds so frantic. "Niall, how could he not realize that it was  _ wrong _ ? He should have told someone, anyone."

"Are you fucking mental? He was seven years old when it started! And it's not like he expected his own mother to be doing something so wrong to him."

"He still should have told someone. What seven year old knows how to keep a secret so well?"

"One that's being manipulated and abused. And besides, who would he have told? You? Look at you, Gemma. God only knows how you would've reacted."

Harry hears heavy footsteps down the hall. They make his heart beat faster, for some reason. Like someone is coming to get him. They make him cringe, make him clench his eyes shut tight. 

"Where are you going, Niall?" 

Her voice sounds thin now, like she realizes she's gone too far. 

"To sleep in the living room. I can't look at you right now."

There's more footsteps. He hears them stop outside his door and he freezes -- he doesn't want to talk -- but then they continue walking and Harry can't hear them anymore before they stop. Harry waits a few minutes to wait and see if Gemma's going to go after Niall, but once those minutes pass and she doesn't, he tip toes out of bed. He grabs a pillow and a blanket and quietly opens his door.

He hates sleeping alone, even in Helen's room. Helen almost always slept in Harry's bedroom; they told Gemma he had night terrors, and she hadn't questioned it. Normally, he can push away the fear and allow sleep to take him as he slept on the couch, but he's been on edge all day and he can't imagine being alone with his own thoughts tonight. 

Niall is sitting up on the couch, his phone lighting up his face. He still looks upset, but as soon as sees Harry, he face melts into a small smile. He's never been so good with kids, always doing the wrong thing, but he's known Harry for forever. He knows how good of a kid Harry is, how full of life he can be, and he doesn't blame Harry for a single thing. No, he'd never imagined he'd be Harry's legal guardian, but shit changes and Niall's the one who offered in the first place. 

"Hey, bud," Niall whispers. Harry doesn't say anything; he just moves to the other couch and gets comfortable. He curls into a ball under the heavy blanket and stares out into the darkness. "Wanna watch a movie?"

And no, Harry doesn't. But he nods anyways and curls further into the blanket. Niall just tries so hard. . . Harry doesn't want to fail another person. 

Their about halfway through  _ Captain America: The First Avenger _ when Niall abruptly pauses the movie. Harry panics for a minute thinking it's Gemma, because he thought Niall was asleep, but when he looks up, Niall's looking at him in the dark.

"I just realized I didn't you anything for your birthday."

Harry shrugs, uncaring. Although he's flattered that Niall thinks it's important enough thing to be sad about forgetting, it's really not a big deal. He's not sure what he would want, anyways.

"Gemma didn't get you anything either, though. That's not right."

"It's fine, Ni. Really."

It's quiet for a moment, and Harry glances back at the frozen television. He fully expects Niall to drop it and turn back on the film, but that's not what happens. Instead, Niall abruptly gets up and flicks on the light. Harry whines quietly, covering his eyes with the blanket, and then Niall's telling him he has to get up. 

"We're making brownies," he declares, "and then we're going to finish watching this movie."

"It's almost midnight," Harry points out. He's met with no response, and when he peels the covers back, Niall's gone into the kitchen and already started to bang pots and pans around.

"What are you scared of, Harry?"

It's 9:00 am, and therapy's just about the only thing that gets Harry out of bed early in the morning anymore. On the rare occasions he goes out to the shops with Niall or Gemma, it's normally in the late afternoon. His therapist, Nancy, is staring at him with a calm expression as she waits for him to answer, never pushing him. She has soft brown hair, the curls framing her dark complexion nicely. She practically radiates warmth and it eases Harry's nerves. 

"A lot of things, I'm sure," Harry says. He likes to be able to focus on something else as he talks, so she gives him dumb little things to do to make him more comfortable. Right now, he's color-coding her paper clips. He has four separate piles. "Nothing specific comes to mind."

"I don't believe that." Harry looks up at her, cocking his head in confusion. "I believe you're scared of a lot of things. Things that you write off as stupid or as a part of your anxiety. Name a few, I'm just curious."

Harry thinks about for a little while.  _ Blue, red, green, blue, blue _ . She's right -- his mind immediately narrows in on a few subjects, and then it brushes them off.  _ Red, red, blue. _

"I'm scared Niall's going to leave eventually, I guess, but you know that."

She's blamed that one on Helen before. According to her, his strong, unbreakable bond he had with her transferred to Niall out of a place of fear and a need to feel loved. And he had paused when she said that, because he didn't like that comparison at all. His mother was gone. He didn't want Niall to be gone, too. 

"I'm scared that I'm going to blame Gemma forever. That I'm never going to talk to Louis again."  _ Red, green, blue, green.  _ "That I'm never going to get better. That I'm only going to get worse."

"Worse? How do you mean?"

_ Blue, blue, a piece of lint, red. _ "I feel that I've never really gotten better. Like, I guess my anxiety isn't terrible anymore and I can get out of bed now, but. I've kind of been, like, coasting by, you know? Not getting terribly better, not getting terribly worse. The ship's going to go one way, eventually."

"What way do you think it's going to go?"

He shrugs. "I don't know yet. So long as I don't go out of the house and Niall and Gemma stay the same, I'm always going to be  _ just  _ coasting by."

"Do you want more for yourself?"

"Of course," he says quickly, defensive. He didn't ask for any of this. No matter how hard it is for him to wrap his brain around what she did, he knows for certain he never brought it on. "I want to have friends and feel able to do something for myself, and not for her."

"Your mother?"

He nods.  _ Blue, green, red _ . "You know," he says, quietly and collected, "I still can't, like, get off. Feels wrong."

It's something he's been wanting to bring up for a while, the anxiety around masturbating that he can't shake. He's tried everything -- doing it in the dark, in every position, in different areas of the house. Nothing seems to work, and each time he gets antsy and shaky and feels incredibly dirty. 

She's surprised by that. "You're almost sixteen, Harry. You've been sexually active since you were seven years old. How have you been coping with that?"

Harry shrugs again. "I don’t know. It’s -- sometimes I get, like, desperate. And I do it then. But, um.” He shakes his head. This is weird, isn’t it? His therapist shouldn’t have to listen to him talking about jerking off. “Sorry,” he breathes out.

She waves him off. "Don't be; it's natural. I'm glad you've brought this up. You can continue if you'd like."

He runs out of paper clips to sort, and instantly, he feels antsy. He looks up at Nancy for more things to do, and she tells him to start over with the paper clips. He pouts a little, but scoops them all back up and dumps them back into their original container.  _ Blue, red, green, blue _ .

"I always do it in the shower," he continues. "I feel less exposed in there. And, like, it doesn't even feel good, really. It makes me less tense afterwards, but, like I said, it feels wrong. almost. And most of the time I can't do it without picturing she's the one doing it to me."

He cringes as the words leave his mouth, knowing full well that if Gemma heard him say that, she'd hit him upside the head. But he can’t help it. Sex and his mother has rarely been separate in his head. She made him feel good, and all he does anymore is feel like crap, so really, is it all that surprising that he thinks of her? It’s not like he  _ fantasizes _ about her. It’s not like that. It’s just -- hard to explain. 

"That's not healthy, Harry. Have you tried watching adult videos?"

He's caught off guard by that and laughs gently. "Porn? No, no. She wouldn't like it, I don't think." He says it without thinking, and when he realizes what he's said, he closes his eyes in shame. All routes lead back to the same place, it seems like. "I can't help it," he murmurs, pitiful. "My brain constantly goes back to her, what would she like, what would she allow. It's like I can't stop."

He gets a pointed look of pity from her. For once, he doesn't exactly hate it. "It's okay, Harry. That's what we are here to work on. Why do you think you are so," she searches for the words, " _ motivated _ to please her?"

Instantly, he feels his chest tighten. He forces himself to open his eyes, forces himself to start sorting again. "I always want to please people," he says, keeping it safe at first. "It's like I don't care if I have to bend backwards, I'll do it. And I'm. . . I'm scared. Of her. Of what she will do if I don't do something right."

"Why?"

"She hurt me, once," he confesses. His hands are shaking. This is something he doesn't even let himself think about too often, something that he hasn't said out loud before. When the doctors asked, he stayed completely silent. He lets the anxiety consume him, and stutters out, "I'm not going to go into details, I don't want to remember, don't make me, I -- "

"Tell me what you're comfortable with," she says gently, setting down her pen. "I won't write it down, I won't tell anybody."

That's. . . safe. That seems good. He idly wonders if that's actually true, that she won't tell anyone, but a burst of confidence forces himself to confide in her.

"She hurt me after she found out I was, like, intimate with someone else. It happened once, a few years back. With Louis. That's, um, what the doctors found. When they examined me after she got arrested."

That was maybe the worst part of it. They poked and prodded at every inch of him until he was shaking like a leaf. He felt so exposed, didn't really understand why they needed him to do what they were asking of him. Gemma and Niall tried their absolute best to keep him out of the legal aspect, but he did have to answer some questions on the stand once, and that wasn't almost worse than the doctors getting handsy with him. As the months go past, though, all of that becomes more of a blur. 

"The tearing of your rectum?” Nancy asks. “That was from your mother?"

He flinches, heart stuttering. "Yeah, that." What a stupid question. Who else would it have been from? Nancy opens her mouth to say something else, but he shakes his head. "New subject. I can't do this anymore."

She smiles, picking up her pen again. "Okay. New subject."

That afternoon, he uses the one thing he took away from today's appointment: he needs to watch some porn. He doesn't know what kind of porn he'd be into, but he goes to a porn website anyway and clicks on whatever sounds not terrible. After searching through a few dozen videos with tattooed, gloved, and pierced guys, he finds a video that catches his eye.  _ 2 blokes fucking in a hot tub, hot!!! _

He clicks on it eagerly, and then blushes because he's watching gay fucking porn for the first time. He does his best to shake the nerves, slides off his pants, and tries not to think too hard. Masturbation is completely normal, everyone does it. He remembers Louis telling him how once, he jacked off three times in a row just because he felt like it, and that once he even did it at school.

He stops thinking when the first dick appears on his screen. He has the volume turned off, but he still looks around the house anxiously. Both Niall and Gemma are at work, he should be safe, even if he's doing this in the living room, so he turns it up a little. 

When the two blokes start fucking, Harry's dick twitches finally. He gets a hand around himself, jumping at how clammy his hands are. He ignores it and starts stroking himself a few times. It's not long before he's hard, and he starts letting out little puffs of breath. He's doing this, he's actually doing this. Not in the fucking shower after a week of blue balls. He fucks into his hand in time with the video, and when he comes, he's not even expecting it. 

It comes out of nowhere, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He groans, tugging himself through it, not at all worried if he's staining the couch or not. When he comes down from the fucking amazing high, he sits there, smiling lazily, hazy. 

It doesn't last forever, but in the end, he doesn't mind that he has to go take a shower and scrub himself clean and hide away underneath his blanket after. He  _ got off  _ by himself and for himself, to fucking  _ porn _ , that's definitely a step in the right direction. Next to the pocket of guilt in his chest lays a pocket of hope, and for once, it's enough for Harry. 

One month later, Gemma and Niall sit him down at the dinner table. Niall looks stressed and worried while Gemma looks exhausted when they tell him they have something they want to talk to him about. 

"Go for it," Harry murmurs nervously, not letting himself jump to conclusions. He doesn't want to get himself worked up over something when he doesn't even know what it is yet. 

"It's just," Niall starts, trying to smile, "you've been doing a lot better these past couple weeks. We both have noticed some sort of change in you, and we think it'd be best if we take the next step together as a family."

_ Family. _ Harry's not sure he'd use that word to describe the three of them, but then again, he never really thought that he had a family. He had people coming and going throughout his life, that's it. "Okay," he replies skeptically, digging his teeth into his bottom lip. He's not sure what improvement Niall's referring to that warrants this next step. It's not like he's had a breakthrough, or anything; he's still fucked in the head; it's just becoming easier for him to deceiver what’s him and what's Helen. 

"We know that when we brought up the idea a while ago, you weren't a big fan." Niall shrugs, a real smile finally breaking through and lighting up his face. "We're hoping you're more open to the idea now. We've talked it over with Nancy and she said she thinks it'd be a nice push for you."

Harry waits for Niall to get to the point. Eventually, he does.

"We want to move," Niall says. Harry must make a face, because Niall's quick to add, "Nowhere too far -- London, maybe? It'd give us all a change of scenery, and both Gems and I could easily find a new job."

There's something sinking down Harry's throat to the bottom of his stomach that's spreading hot, fiery warmth down his body. It's panic, he realizes quickly. Moving is a completely new idea to him, and he wishes they slowly brought it to his attention instead of springing it on him like this. It's too much at once; half of him is screaming that he doesn't want to leave everything behind, and the other half is reminding him that he has nothing to leave. 

"Why do you want to move?" he asks, confused. "If I'm doing better here, why risk changing it, why -- "

"Harry," Niall says calmly. He reaches across the table to grab Harry's clammy hand. "We think it'd be best for you to get you out of here. It must be hard surrounded by memories and everything, and you're sleeping on a bloody couch, we," he takes a deep breath, "we want to save some money by moving into an apartment, and -- "

"Moving into the city will be  _ more  _ money," Harry points out, frantic. He doesn't want to leave home, he doesn't -- this is his safe place, he doesn't want to be forced out of it. Even if he has nothing here, he has security. 

Gemma closes her eyes, sighing. "Let Niall finish, please."

"No, it's okay," Niall tells her, squeezing Harry's hand. He turns back to Harry. "If you don't want to, we won't. We think it'd be best for all three of us, but you get the final say. If you want to stay, we're staying."

That's. . . different. That changes things. If he's not being forced into anything, if he has a choice in this, he might be able to get behind it. He's not used to having a choice in things. "What about Nancy?"

Niall looks a little less hopeful. "Well," he starts slowly. "You like her, and so do we. You seem to trust her, and we're not ready to break that for you. We'd be willing to drive you up here to see her once every two weeks, at first. And if we find you need more, we'll figure that out then."

It's clear that Niall will have an answer for anything Harry could worry about, so he decides not to ask anymore questions on that. He trusts Niall, and trusts that if they do move, all of Harry's needs will be met. 

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course," he agrees, "Take as long as you need, Haz. But maybe think about it as moving on, instead of moving out."

Harry rolls his eyes a little, ebbing his anxiety. That came straight from Nancy's mouth and everyone knows it. Niall gives a short laugh and squeezes his hand again. 

"If money's, like, a problem," Harry starts, remembering while Niall said. 

Immediately, Niall shakes his head. "It's not, don't worry about that."

"I'm just saying, like. If it is, I could maybe stop taking some of my meds or something -- "

"H -- "

"They're expensive as all hell," Harry snaps, harsher than he intends to. Being cut off doesn't sit well with him right now, his nerves far too frayed. 

Niall sighs. "We aren't taking you off your meds, and that's final. So drop it, okay? My parents help out when we need it, and they'd agree that taking you off your medication isn't worth it."

After nodding, Harry turns his attention to Gemma. He studies her suspiciously, notes how her shoulders are tense and she's barely holding Niall's hand back. She looks so, so defeated, but Harry just has to ask anyways. "Could I like. . . could I maybe take a few of her things?"

"No," Gemma snaps, opening her eyes. There's a fire within them. "Her shit stays here."

He sinks further into his chair, taking his hand away from Niall and putting it into his lap. He pulls his knees to his chest on the chair, frowning gently. He knew she wouldn't say yes.

It's like Gemma forgot every good thing their mother's ever done for her. Their mum raised Gemma, gave her food and clothes and shelter and a safe place to grow up in. Most kids don't get that;  _ Harry  _ didn't even get all that, and he's starting to realize that now. But Helen loved both of them, tried her best to please and care for them in every way possible. She worked day in and day out to do so, too. No matter how hard Gemma tries, being angry won't erase her from their lives, and it's definitely not shielding Harry from anything. What Helen did is done, and Harry's never going to get the stains off his body from it. It's too late. 

Niall frowns, possibly thinking the same thing as Harry. He nods at Harry like he's going to fix this and turns to Gemma. Before he says anything, Niall moves a piece of dark hair off her face gently and tucks it behind her ear. Some days, they're gentle and loving towards one another, and others, they're cold and distant. 

"He can't take just a few things? Not everything, obviously. Just, maybe a few things."

"Like what?" she snaps, ducking her head away from his hand. "All that's left is her clothes and a few dumb things in her drawers, there's nothing worth taking."

"Because  _ you _ threw them all away," Harry bites, angry. Gemma doesn't get it, but she's allowed to make all of the rules. It's not  _ fair _ . "There's some stuff of hers in the basement that she put down there when Robin moved in. And Dad had a few things of hers that are in the boxes down there."

"When'd you go through them?" 

Harry shrugs once. Gemma specifically told him not to go through them, but Harry had felt he deserved to. "When you brought them home," he answers. "I was curious."

"You shouldn't have. I didn't tell you that you could. I was going to look through them myself first, I -- "

He scoffs, standing up. He's done with this conversation; they want something from him, they want to completely change his life by moving, and she's not willing to compromise with him even a little bit. It's bullshit. "Those boxes have been down there for  _ months. _ You never had any intention of going through them. You wanted to pretend that they weren't there like you do with everything else. He was my dad too, Gemma. You're not the only one who misses him."

Niall intervenes before Gemma can respond. "Harry, you can take a few things of Helen's if you decide that we're going to move, and anything of your dad's that you want. Of course you can." Gemma looks furious, so Niall quickly shoos him out of the kitchen. "Why don't you go up to her room now and find some stuff you'd want to take with you, yeah? Go on, I'll call you down when dinner's done."

It catches him off guard a little -- he doesn't really want to look through her things  _ now  _ \-- but he nods and scurries out of the kitchen and up the stairs before Gemma can tell him not to. 

Hesitation comes crashing down on him as he stares down Helen's door. He hasn't gone in here since he got off in the living room, feels too guilty to. A quiet, insistent part of him is telling him to just go, that it's okay. But the louder part of him is telling him that his mum would be pissed, would want to punish him and make him hurt. 

Trying to avoid thinking too hard, he turns the doorknob quickly and shoves the door open before he can go back on his movements. The room's exactly how he left it; Gemma stopped going in there when Harry stopped sleeping there. The air feels heavy and it feels like he's being watched, so he shuts the door. 

It feels wrong on so many levels to be here after what he did, so it feels even worse to open her drawers and go through her things. Harry reminds himself that she had no respect for his privacy, and starts to sort through her things. 

There's five drawers that are simply filled with clothes. It doesn't jerk any sadness out of Harry, thankfully, except for when he finds the dress she wore to Robin's funeral folded neatly in the corner. Two drawers are underneath the boring ones, and he's scared he's not going to find anything to remember her by that's worth keeping. He slides open the second to last drawer, and the breath is all but knocked out of him. 

It's all of Robin's old things, stacked and organized neatly. He never questioned where they went, but here they are, waiting for him to pick through. His lip wobbles as he grabs the thick glasses that his stepfather never seemed to take off, drags his fingers across the lens and creates smudges with his fingers. He sets them back into the drawer, not because they don't belong in the keep pile, but because _ everything  _ in this drawer goes in the keep pile. He guesses Gemma doesn't know his stuff is in here, either. When she had raided Helen's room, she didn't touch most of the drawers, probably assuming they were just filled with boring clothes. 

He prods through a few more of Robin's things before closing it; he'll look through it more closely with Gemma, if she wants. Now that he actually has something he wants to hold on to, he braces himself for what's in the last drawer.

There's no way he'd be able to prepare for what's in it. Pictures, art crafts, handwritten cards, awards, presents -- Harry's everywhere in this drawer. Gemma, too, but Gemma was never as close with their mum, so she didn't make her cards for her birthday or smile for pictures all too much. The  _ pictures _ , God, there's so many; Helen with Robin and Des; Gemma and Harry on the first day back to school; Louis and Harry making funny faces at the camera; Louis and Harry fishing on a trip with Des. It's basically a physical documentation of Harry and Gemma as babies, all the way to fourteen and eighteen.

The photos that hurt most are the ones with just Helen and Harry. They both look so happy in all of them, and it breaks Harry's heart time each time his brain mental organizes them as Before and After. In the After pictures, the ones in which both people in the picture know what they do at night together, he tries to see if he looks any different, and he doesn't; he smile looks the same, it reaches his eyes in all the photos. Nothing but their appearances change between the Before and After pictures, which does his head in. Slowly but surely, he's grasping that what she did was wrong. But if it was so wrong, why does he look normal in these photos? If what she did was so bad as everyone says it is, shouldn't the boy in the photos look traumatized and devastated?

His fingers fly through of her things, and he decides that his drawer is a keep drawer, too; he knows that he probably will just put it all under a box and put it under his bed, but he doesn't care. He wants them all. 

He doesn't realize he's crying until he whips his head towards the door when he hears four heavy feet coming closer. A few tears drop onto his shoulder and he sniffles instinctively, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his palm. He knows Gemma's coming to yell at him, so he carefully puts everything back into the drawer and shuts it, waiting.

She starts yelling before the door even fully opens. "You're not taking anything, you hear me? Not a damn thing, so throw it away now or I'll do it."

Harry looks at her from his spot on the floor, then at Niall who's flushed and silently fuming. It's obvious he told her not to come up here, and that she did anyways. Harry looks down at the floor, taking in a shaking breath. Maybe if he can explain it to her, she can understand better. 

"She has a drawer full of Robin's things, Gemma. And of pictures and dumb things we did as kids. I don't want to get rid of all that."

She looks like she can bust from the anger any second. "I don't care what you want, we're getting rid of it all."

"No, we're not." He scoots back until his back is pressed against the dresser, guarding the drawers. He's still a kid, for fuck's sake, he shouldn't have to fight for things like this. "Just because you cope with anger doesn't mean that I have to. I want to know that I can look back and see that my childhood wasn't a complete shit show."

She scoffs meanly. "News flash, Harry. It was."

"There's stuff with Louis in there, too, and Dad. I'm not going to let you throw it all away."

"You don't even talk to Louis anymore," she snaps, before stomping over to where Harry's sitting. She crouches down next to him, a fiery look in her eyes. "Move."

He clenches his jaw. "No."

" _ Move _ ."

" _ No _ ."

She takes matters into her own hands, then; she reaches behind Harry's back to get a grab at the handles, ready to set fire to everything in there without taking one look at any of it. Harry gives her a look of betrayal, and he can feel his body get ready to fight back but he doesn't want to fight anymore, he's so sick of fighting with her.

"Niall, don't let her," he begs, giving Niall his best pathetic, pleading face he can muster. "Please, there's stuff in there that has nothing to  _ do  _ with Mum." He presses his back harder into the wood when Gemma shoves at him a little, both persistent. Harry's fueled with a childish stubbornness and Gemma with matured hatred. 

Niall looks so, so done with everything. He signed up to take care of one kid, not two. "Gem, seriously? Let him, God. He's not ready to move on yet, we can't just force him to."

"This isn't about  _ moving on _ ," Harry seethes, swatting at Gemma's hands. "This is me not wanting to throw away and ignore my entire childhood."

Gemma keeps trying to open the drawers. Harry continues to not let her. Niall stares.

Finally, Harry cracks, because he's still the only child in the room. He stops resisting Gemma's shoves and lets himself be pushed out of the way. She doesn't even consider it before she's ripping open the drawer, and as if someone outside of this room is on his side, some of the pictures that Harry placed on top come flying out, falling on the ground around Gemma.

It catches her off guard, but she quickly regains her rage and grabs the one closest to her socked foot. It's a picture of Harry, Gemma and Helen all happily smiling at the camera, holding up paper-made snowflakes. Harry can't be more than three or four in the picture, it's a Before one, and he's sitting on Gemma's lap. 

It makes him want to smile. Gemma rips it in half.

He stares at her, horrified.  _ How could she? _ How,  _ God _ , how can one person be filled with so much rage? He thinks maybe it would be just that one, that seeing Helen's face for the first time in a while hurt her, but she's picking up another one and Harry lunges for it before she can tear it up.

"That one's of me and Lou, stop, stop, why are you doing this?" He snatches it out of her grip, takes a second to soften out the crinkles she made with her fingers, and grabs all the other pictures, including the torn one, off of the ground and holds them close to his chest, protecting them. 

Gemma stops looking for things to destroy, and now her eyes are on Harry. It scares him. 

"Don't ruin anything else," he pleads, reaching to shut the drawer next to her. As he moves back, half of the picture she tore falls and they both move to grab it. Harry gets to it first, scooping it up and putting it back in the pile gently. "I'm still little in that picture, Gemma. She hadn't done anything yet. Why'd you ruin it?" He sounds so small and pathetic, and it's exactly what he feels like.

"You were still little when she  _ did _ do something, Harry," Gemma retaliates. "Stop protecting her."

Harry doesn't like that. He's not  _ protecting _ her, he's just -- she's his mother still, and he still loves her, and he'd still die for her. "Why are you so angry all the time?" He doesn't wait for her to answer. "I just want to remember the times I was happy, is that really so bad?"

"You couldn't have been happy then, she was -- "

" _ I was happy _ ," he corrects, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. "I had Louis and Mum, and you didn't hate me. I didn't hate myself. I was happy. Maybe I shouldn't of been, or it was wrong to be, but I was."

Gemma purses her lips. "You're happy now that she's gone, Harry." It's not true. They all know it's not true, and Harry can't quite figure out why she'd say that except to try and convince herself that she's not completely fucking his whole life up just as much as Helen did.

He clutches the photos tighter. "I go to therapy twice a week for two hours. I'm on antidepressants, that don't even really work. I don't leave the house. I don't have any friends. I can't remember the last time I was genuinely happy. You two think that just because I get out of bed now, that means I'm happy? It doesn't." He stands up, leaving his sister on the ground. "I'm gonna go lie down now. Promise me you aren't going to destroy anything else."

She looks at him, eyes glossy with tears. Harry hasn't seen her cry in along time. "Okay. I won’t. Promise."

Still, he hides the photos he took underneath the couch cushions.

If he thought looking through his mother's old things was hard, he's certainly not prepared to dig around  _ his _ old things. He hasn't been in his room since the day when he was arrested. He was fourteen then; he gets closer to sixteen every day. He doesn't think Helen would have a problem with going through his own things, so there's less of a build-up when he opens his door. 

It makes him wince, just at the sight of it. Some things have changed since he's seen it last; his clothes from that day or no longer splayed across the floor and the bed is made with a different duvet, this one purple. Some stuff is left laying around, probably from Niall trying to find whatever Harry asked him to retrieve for him throughout the last year. Besides that, though, it's the exact same. 

As he sits on the edge of his old bed (should he be calling it old?), an eerie feeling builds in his chest. It's like he's looking in his own casket, or going through someone's room who's dead. He doesn't like it, he quickly decides, but he knows that he has to go through it if he wants to move.

He told Niall and Gemma that he wanted to move three nights after Gemma tore the picture, but he had one condition: he wants a dog. They agreed.

So, now it's less of an emotional thing going through old things and more of a necessity. The only room that has laid untouched from Gemma's rapid packing is his room, and he only told them two days ago he would be okay with it. Clearly, she's in a rush to get them out of here.

"Holy shit," he mumbles to himself, looking around. He doesn't know where to start; there's so many things he hasn't touched in a year and a half and they’re all begging for his attention at once. He decides that he'll go through his Louis Box first, even though he knows he's going to keep everything in there anyway.

Harry has a Louis Box and Louis has a Harry box. If Louis still has his box, that is. Jay told them they should keep things that represent things they did together; concert tickets, movie stamps, receipts, birthday cards. Harry has it all, fourteen years of friendship tucked away into one box. 

As he picks through the box, he laughs and cries, smiles and frowns. He laughs at the letter Louis wrote him when they were in an argument ( _ "We're not gonna be friends if you're gonna be a turd" _ ) and the few detention slips he got because of Louis. He cries a little when his fingers graze the almost-complete set of  _ Law & Order: SVU  _ DVDs. Louis placed them on his doorstep the last time he stopped by the house, his last attempt at keeping their friendship. He wrote a simple  _ don't forget about me _ on a sticky note and taped it to the first season, and just like that, their friendship was over officially. He smiles at the all the presents Louis gave him over the years, and frowns when he finishes looking through everything. A box is all he has to prove that he used to be friends with the nicest, funniest boy on planet earth.

A knock on the door brings him back to reality. His sad, Louis-less reality. Niall's standing in the doorway, obviously concerned. "You lost or something?"

Harry laughs a little, placing the lid back on the box and setting it to the right of his bed. It's the first thing in the keep pile. "I have to figure out what I want to keep and get rid of before Gemma comes in here and decides for me." He reaches over, pulls the first drawer out of the night stand and places it on his bed. "Wanna help?"  _ Please stay _ . He still subconsciously does that thing Nancy warned Gemma and Niall of so long ago.

Niall's tired and he's just go home from work, but he nods nonetheless. "Yeah, 'course. Let me get changed and I'll grab you some boxes from the basement to put all your crap in."

Harry nods back at him and focuses back on what he was doing. Quickly, he finds himself wondering why fourteen-year-old Harry kept an unopened packet of bouncy balls in his night stand. it goes in the donate pile. 

It's pretty uneventful, really; Niall orders a pizza and they tear into his room together. He finds things that gross him out, like melted candy and crumbs behind dressers and gum stuck to his bed frame. That definitely belonged to Louis; Harry was a polite child, he didn’t do that type of thing. He also finds about a dozen of his old diaries, and he frowns, putting them in the keep pile. Why did he stop journaling? It helped him compartmentalize things. 

For the most part, nothing bad happens, except for Harry screaming when he finds a spider. 

"This could be a new start for you, bud," Niall tells him once his room has turned to boxes. "You could really start over."

Harry frowns, shaking his head against Niall's thigh. He's got his head in Niall's lap, and he's starting to doze off on the floor. It feels strange falling asleep in this bed. "I don't wanna start over. I just want things to get better."

(They won't for a really long time.)


	2. chapter two

"And you're sure this apartment building allows dogs?" Harry asks for the hundredth time, suspiciously eyeing Gemma. 

She groans, trying to hit him playfully. He bounces out of the way, his shoes threatening to make scuff marks on their (maybe) new home. "Yes, I checked. Dogs, cats, fish, birds, bunnies -- all of them are welcome."

Harry's face lights up. "Can I get a bunny, too?"

"No," she declines quickly, smiling. "We drove all the way here so you could see the apartment, now see it."

There's not much to see, honestly. Gemma and Niall's soon-to-be-room is left of the front door, while Harry's is almost opposite to it. The dining room is in the kitchen, and it's an almost entirely open floor plan, so the living room is right there when he's standing in the kitchen. His room is on the right of the living room wall, and there's a bathroom next to it. 

"Are you sure this is enough room for a dog?" Harry wonders, coming out of his bedroom. Niall is measuring something while Gemma watches, but they both look at him when he asks. "I don't want to be a bad dog owner."

"It'll be fine, love," Gemma says, bemused. "But you're in charge of taking it outside when it has to do its business, I don't care if it's bloody freezing outside."

He mocks offense. "Stop calling my dog an 'it'."

They both laugh. It's nice.

**。。。**

When Harry's sixteen, he demands to get a different therapist. 

"She's a fucking nut," Harry explains, trying to get Niall onto his side. Niall's only half-listening, though; he's cooking dinner  _ and  _ trying to get the dog to calm down. She scratching at his legs, begging for attention. Harry's too busy doing school work at the table. He's in his senior year already, even if he's only sixteen, and Gemma's at work.

Niall swats at Belle with one hand, stirring with the other. "Harry, that's not nice," he grumbles, moving to work on the noodles. 

Harry looks up from his computer, eyes narrowed. "She told me that the only reason I'm gay is because I'm afraid of female attention."

Finally, Niall pauses and looks at Harry. He's clearly confused and shocked, judging from his wide eyes and open mouth. Hesitantly, he asks, "You're gay?"

Harry furrows his eyebrows, a small smile making its way on his face. It's good, and it's new, but lately, it's becoming less and less rare. "Uh. . . I, yeah. I am." He wiggles anxiously in his seat; this is the first time he's had to have this conversation with somebody. Niall just stares at him blankly, causing Harry to squirm some more. 

He tries to remember if Niall has every made a comment for or against gay people; he can't think of anything, so his smile slowly fades away and he back down at the computer. "You don't, like, care or anything, right?" God, imagine if after everything, Niall leaves because Harry's gay. That'd be terrible.

Niall frowns and sets his spoon down. "Hey," he murmurs softly, getting back Harry's attention. Harry looks up. "Of course not."

Harry releases a deep breath and nods. "Good. That's. . . good." Niall smiles at him and Harry smiles back and it's just so peaceful, and polar-opposite of where Harry had been last year, Niall feels a bubble of pride burst within him.

"But, like I was saying," Harry continues. "Nancy said that the only reason why I'm gay is because of what Helen did."

That's another thing that changed: Harry's finally accepted that what Helen had done to him was wrong, a crime. Niall's still isn't sure if he trusts it -- Harry came home one day from a therapy session, refusing to call his mother anything other than her name. Nancy tells Niall that breakthroughs like this are expected, though they have to happen on their own. It's nothing Nancy or anybody said; it was all Harry.

Truth is, Harry finally cracked open that box set of  _ Law & Order: SVU _ DVDs, and it changed some things in Harry's head; it's not like he watched one episode and subscribed to the idea that his mother was a criminal, it's more like he watched a whole season and found himself relating to a lot of the victims throughout the episodes. It hit Harry like a ton of bricks:  _ victim _ . He's a victim. Harry's not willing to give the credit to some American television series, so he doesn't share what changed his mind. 

"That's pretty fucked up," Niall agrees, nodding. He finally goes back to his pasta. "Is she wrong, though? I mean, she's a professional." 

Harry shrugs, getting back to writing his stupid essay for history. In school, he never had any trouble concentrating, but that changed when he converted to online school. "Yeah." He pauses, thinks for a moment, and then goes back to typing. "I mean, not entirely; I'm pretty sure I'm bi, but I can't think of girls that way without feeling, like, panicky, so that crosses females out of the equation. But a boy gave me a handie at school when I was thirteen, and I, um, liked it, so that puts males in their place." Maybe it’s not that simple, but Harry likes to think it is.

Niall groans. "Harry, Jesus Christ, seriously?" Harry just smiles shyly. "With who?"

There's a small pause and when Niall turns to look at Harry, he's stopped typing and started to think too hard again. "Louis," Harry admits quietly. He chews on the inside of his cheek nervously, because he never told anybody about that except Helen, and Helen had hurt him so badly because of it. Because of a stupid hand job that lasted five seconds in a shitty bathroom at school with his best friend. 

Making sure to keep himself collected, Niall just nods slowly, knowing not to push Harry on the subject. Even though Harry misses Louis like a limb, he refuses to call him.  _ He's going to want to know what happened.  _ And, well. Niall can't argue with that. So days and weeks and months go by in which Harry doesn't call, and it gets a little easier with each passing day to convince himself that Louis doesn't care anymore. It's been two years. 

Gemma comes home, then. She has an arm full of groceries and Belle jumps at her feet, but Harry doesn't move. He watches his sister struggle and doesn't even feel guilty about it. Another thing that has changed: Harry just. . . stopped speaking to his sister. It was a gradual decision, one that he talked out with Nancy a few times.

Nancy told him that it's not healthy to be burning bridges. Harry argues Gemma burnt their bridge a while ago. 

"But Harry," Nancy had said, worried. She gets worried sometimes about things Harry doesn't think are as big of a deal as she does, which then makes Harry worry about the fact that he's not worrying about something. "She's your sister, your family. You're extremely lonely, you've said. Do you really think pushing her away is what you want?"

"I want her to stop saying it's my fault when she's mad at me," he responded. At the time, he had been drawing random shapes. "And she can't argue with me if I'm not talking to her."

He pretends not to see Niall kiss her hello and help her with the groceries, all the while tripping over Belle. As he puts away the groceries, he accidentally steps on her tail and she yelps and looks at him in betrayal. Niall curses and chases her out of the room in an attempt to apologize, whilst yelling, "Harry, I hate your fucking dog!"

"She hates you, too, now!" he calls back, smiling gently. 

Belle's a two-year-old gray pit bull with short fur and a giant square head. In the beginning, Niall was trying to find Harry an emotional support dog, and he stumbled onto what he refers to as the world's dumbest dog: Belle. She was in training to be a service dog, but she was too friendly and social so she failed out of the program. Niall couldn't pass her up. If he would have known that her being 'overly-friendly' meant 'is-under-your-feet-every-two-seconds' he might have revisited his decision. (Or at least that's what he says. In reality, he loves Belle just as much as Harry does.)

"You need your hair cut," Gemma says conversationally. Ever since he stopped talking to her, she's been being softer towards him. Still, he has no sympathy. He shouldn't have to ignore her sister for her to understand that she's being a shitty person. When she walks passed with a box of cereal, though, she runs her fingers through his hair, and he doesn't duck away from it for once. 

Niall comes back into the room with Belle, who's now wagging her tail happily again, in tow. "He likes it long," Niall says for him, taking the cereal from her. 

After Harry shuts his computer -- it’s not like he was doing much work, anyways -- Niall sits across him at the table. He shuffles through the bills in the middle of the table, humming something softly. His face mostly remains collected, but it still makes Harry feel guilty.

"I can get a job, you know," Harry says suddenly, staring at the bills in Niall's hands. "I'm sixteen. Don't most kids my age have a job by now?"

He wants to start trying to do normal things normal teenagers his age do. Leaving the house still freaks him out and he can’t do it without getting really anxious, but maybe if he threw himself into it, he could swim instead of sink. 

Niall's eyes instantly shoot up to meet Gemma's, who is already staring at him. Harry turns in time to see Gemma shake her head the slightest, and then looks back at Niall who is nodding slightly in agreement. They talk with their eyes all the time, it's so  _ annoying _ . "I don't know if that's such a good idea, bud."

"Why not?"

Niall sucks in a deep breath before scrubbing a hand down his face. He's never been good at denying Harry anything, always struggles with it. "It's just. You've been doing so good lately, Harry. I don't think it's smart to take that for granted."

Harry crosses his arms stubbornly. He's been smiling more and it doesn't always feel impossible to breathe, but that doesn't mean he's doing _ good. _ He wants to be doing better, and maybe a job could rush that. "I'm talking about getting a job, not going into the military."

"I know, I know." Niall thinks it over for a second before shrugging. "I'll tell you what: let's see how you adjust to a new therapist. If you can handle that big of a change, then we'll talk."

Harry smiles a bit and nods. He can do that. He likes Nancy and all, but he's not going to be shrinked by someone who doesn't make him feel completely safe in his sexuality. It's one thing he's never questioned; he doesn't want to start doing it now. And besides, the long drive to see her every other weekend is nauseating. 

Gemma clears her throat and they both look to see her looking slightly annoyed. "A new therapist? Harry's been seeing Nancy for almost two years."

Niall explains to her the situation while Harry makes funny faces at Belle, who cocks her head in confusion. There's a flutter in his chest and a flip in his stomach and if he's not mistaken, that's what this whole happiness thing is about.

He should've known it wouldn't have lasted long. He's had good patches before being pulled back down into the dark, and pulled back down _ hard _ . So really, he shouldn't have been surprised when everything, once again, changed. He feels like the bottom of his world is falling, and he can't catch it. He just has to watch it go with no promise of a return. 

Harry doesn't expect switching therapists to be all too difficult. He thought this new one would be just another Nancy who asked him questions about his feelings. He's wrong, though. So, so wrong. 

Dr. Connie is older, around her fifties, he assumes, so maybe that's where the issue rests. Age difference, or the fact that older generations don't seem to understand kids at all. She has her hair smoothed back into a bun at the base of her skull, glasses resting in her hair while she squints down at her notepad, and her office is more mature than Nancy's. 

"You said you're sixteen?" she asks, looking at him down her nose. 

It makes him antsy. "Yeah. Just turned."

She nods, writing that down before glancing at him again. "Why are you here, Mr. Styles?"

_ Harry _ , he wants to say. It's always been just Harry. But he doesn't; instead, he nervously wipes his hands on his nicest jeans and tries to think. "Well, like. I don't know, it's written down on the sheet my old therapist gave you, I'm pretty sure. If you'd just look, I'm sure -- "

She purses her lips. "I want to hear it from you."

Fine. Fine, he can do this. He's the one who wanted a new therapist, he's got to play the part. "I have depression, I guess. And, like, really bad anxiety? About everything."

"What medications are you on?"

Shit. "I don't remember the names of them. It's on my record." It is, he's sure, but it won't help her much. He stopped taking his medication three months ago. He started getting really, really bad headaches, ones that left him nauseated in bed all day, and if he had told Gemma or Niall or Nancy, they would've had him try another antidepressant. It'd be his fourth switch in medication, and even though Nancy told him not to let it discourage him, it did. So he hasn't told anyone, and although he's noticed a slight increase in his anxiety, his depression has let him breathe. 

"So it is. Your depression -- how long have you had it?"

_ Had it. _ Like it's a disease, or something. It kind of is, he guesses. Maybe he should trust her more. There's awards and certificates lining her walls, she must know what she's doing. "It's always kind of been there, I guess. But it got worse after my mother --" He stops himself, feeling dizzy. He wants to sort paper clips or do something to distract him but he's got nothing but a cold stare boring into his soul. 

"Your mother what?"

_ Look at my fucking record _ . "My mum, Helen, she. She, like, forced me. To do, like, things with her. Sexual things."

She doesn't look fazed, or shocked, or like she feels bad at all. She simply writes it down and looks up at him, as if there should be more. 

"I was seven," he explains, feeling defensive. "And she got arrested when I was fourteen, you don't -- don't look at me like I don't get to be upset about it."

She writes something down and circles it. "I'm just trying to understand. You're a new client; I ask all the same questions, and follow-up questions when necessary. Please answer them." She leans forward, takes a sip of her water, and leans back. "How many times did this occur?"

"Almost every night for seven years."

Again, no reaction. He's not one to beg for pity or sympathy, but a little bit of compassion would do good to ease the fire in his veins. He already feels alone and alienated, he doesn't need to feel ashamed, too. "Did your mother touch you, or did you touch her?"

He feels sick. His head feels light and his heart is racing, like it always does when someone's gripping onto his bruises too tight. He tells himself to swallow it down and to answer, that if he can just get through this hour he'll be fine, but the words are stuck in his throat still.

She frowns. "I'm just trying to understand, Mr. Styles," she keeps saying. Her eyebrows are furrowed, like she can't understand why Harry doesn't want to tell her all of the explicit details, like she can't fathom how a traumatized boy wouldn't want to go running to tell a stranger about what happened. 

"I know," Harry murmurs, wiping his tears with the hem of his shirt. When did he start crying? He doesn't know. "I'm sorry." He is; she's just trying to do her job, and he's being difficult. But Nancy didn't force him to talk about things he didn't want to, or at least gave him a little bit of time to get his thoughts in order. She'd poke and prod, but if Harry began to give overwhelmed, she'd back off.

Dr. Connie just keeps pushing, and pushing, and pushing. "So did your mother force you to touch her?"

Harry takes a deep breath. "Yes."

"How so?"

Does he really have to spell it out for her? He pulls his knees up to his chest, and she stares at his shoes like she wants to ask him to take them off of the couch. She doesn't. "At first, she, like, moved my hands. But after a while I started to do it myself." He cringes at the words. 

She nods. "So your mother wasn't always forceful?"

Harry closes his eyes, trying to soothe the blood rushing in his ears. "Helen, call her Helen. She's not my mother. And no, she wasn't. After the beginning, I like. I did what she said, without having to be physically forced into it. Usually." He sucks in a small breath, not intentionally, but it seems to be all he can sip. "It was fun at the time, I guess."

Her eyebrows rise, like she caught him in a lie or something. "You said she  _ usually _ wouldn't force you to do things. What do you mean by that?" 

_ No _ , Harry thinks immediately, _ fuck that _ . He's not going to talk about that, he'll talk about anything else, but not that. He refused to with Nancy, barely brushed over the topic only once, and he's definitely not going to with Dr. fucking Connie. He's never talked about that in detail, not even with Niall or Gemma. He hates to even think about it. 

She sighs. "Mr. Styles, I can't help you if I don't fully understand."

Harry shakes his head, digging his fingernails into his knee. "Yes, you can. You don't need to know all of the details."

"That's true, Mr. Styles. But if it's causing you this much emotional distress, surely it's important."

His heart is racing.  _ No. No. No _ . That's all he can think;  _ no _ . It's one of those things he's tried to block out but he  _ can't;  _ he can't remember ever hitting Gemma, or some of Helen and his "play times", but this he can remember, and he wishes he couldn't. It's the only time his mother had intentionally, horrendously hurt him. 

"Can you at least tell me when it happened?"

Harry's head's spinning but he chokes out, "About two weeks before she got arrested." Oh, God. He could puke. He might actually puke. 

"Why was she forceful with you on this occasion, Mr. Styles?"

He moves to dig his fingers into the skin of his biceps. The skin is easier to grip there. Dr. Connie doesn't notice. Nancy caught him doing it all the time, even when he didn't realize he was doing it, and would ask him politely to stop. He shutters out a breath. "She found out that I'd,  _ fuck _ , that'd I'd been with someone else."

"Sexually, you mean?"

His fingers dig in harder, rougher. "Yes." He feels his skin break beneath his ring finger, and he knows it won't take long for blood to collect under his nails. When he gets like this, he can't stop, not unless somebody physically grabs his hand and holds it away from him.

"Did you have sex with this person?"

"No, no." Dr. Connie has this all wrong, she doesn't understand, she doesn't  _ get it _ . Nobody ever gets it, nobody could, why is he even trying? He should just give up and give into the idea that he'll always be alone and fucked in the head and no one will ever understand him. "He gave me a hand job in the bathroom at school when I was thirteen."

She furrows her eyebrows. "How'd your mother find out, then? If it had happened a year prior."

"I told her," Harry whimpers out. He thought it was  _ funny _ , thought Helen would  _ laugh  _ the way Niall did. She didn't. He can almost convince himself that his arse still hurts, like there's an echo of pain, and shit. Shit. He can't keep talking about this, he shouldn't. If he could only tell Nancy the surface details after seeing her for almost two years, he shouldn't be telling Dr. Connie any of this, and she shouldn't be prying so damn hard. 

She flips a paper up on her clipboard. "On your record, it says that you've suffered some rectal tearing. Was that caused by this event?"

A sob forces itself out of his throat. The humiliation of that memory burns his skin brightly. "Yes." He had gotten examined after they arrested Helen and still, two weeks later, his muscles were trying to heal. Even then, he hadn't told the doctor how it happened. But here he is now.

She leans in forward. "Tell me what she did to you, Harry."

And no, he can't. The searing pain that he's causing with his fingertips is the only thing that's keeping him somewhat grounded for now, but he can feel his head start to swarm and grasp at old memories. His chest is heaving, and his brain is swirling. 

_ You've been so bad, Harry.  _ That's why Helen told him when she found out, and she looked so mad and disappointed with him, betrayed. It causes Harry to stand abruptly, waving his hands in the air wildly. "Stop, stop, no more. I can't.  _ I can't _ . No. No."

Dr. Connie stands now, too, and she's frowning. "Are you alright, Mr. Styles?"

No, he isn't. He's sweating profusely and his mother's voice is on repeat in his head and he just  _ remembers _ , so painfully, and God, no.  _ No _ . He grabs his hair and sobs again before sitting back down on the couch, curling in on himself, turning into a shaking ball on the couch

She bends down next to the couch and he flinches, carrying his whole body with it. She's telling him he needs to calm down, but he can't. "Get the fuck away from me," he chokes out through gritted teeth. He just needs to be alone right now, needs to do those breathing things Nancy told him about, but she won't  _ leave _ .

"Mr. Styles," she says, reprimanding. "Your behavior is unacceptable," and, fuck, it sounds so much like  _ you've been so bad, Harry _ that he completely shuts down and a shout erupts from his throat. 

He's vaguely aware he's shouting words, but he can't make them out and it's highly probable neither can Dr. Connie. He screams, and screams, and screams into his elbow as he digs his fingernails into his skull, his fingernails demanding pain. He hasn't had a breakdown this bad since the day she was arrested -- that he can remember, at least, the month after that was so dark -- but even thinking about what she did to him makes Harry's brain urge him to keep screaming. He barely lets himself thinks about it, let alone relive it with some stranger. 

Suddenly, frantic hands are on his hot skin and he gasps, cutting off his scream. Without looking who's touching him, he flails his legs out and he hears an all-too familiar curse. He opens his burning eyes, gasping, and its Gemma, and she looks so scared that Harry starts to shout again. 

This time, he can make out the words he's shouting. "Get me Niall" and "Gemma, please" are the only things he can say, and he says them on a loop, all jumbled and frantic. He only shouts them louder when she tells him he's at work. 

"Harry, oh my goodness," Gemma whispers, grabbing at his face. "Whatever happened, it's going to be alright, okay? Listen to me, Harry. Please stop shouting, you're going to hurt yourself, love." She quickly discovers that he already _ is  _ hurting himself so she pries his fingers away from his flesh. She curses when she notices his hands are shaking profusely and his fingernails are caked in blood.

At the sight of blood, Dr. Connie tells the security guard to call an ambulance and Gemma shakes her head. "Don't, he can't stand doctors. You'll just scare him more." When they tell her that they need to, Gemma threatens to sue them for forcing her baby brother into a mental breakdown. They back off, and Dr. Connie leaves the room, shutting the door.

"Babe," Gemma tries again. Harry's clinging so harshly to her now, their hands wrapped together, that her hands start to hurt. "Please, calm down. Talk to me."

He thrusts his hands away from her but she's holding him too tight. It's important now, Gemma realizes, that she gets Harry to stop shouting. He might harm his vocal cords or something, and even though he doesn't use them to talk to her, she'd rather die than let that happen. She places a hand over his mouth and he flinches, looking at her with big, confused eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers, clinging tightly to one of his hands still. "You need to stop shouting."

Harry stops and he's shoulders sag and he's looking at her like he understands, at least slightly. He's still breathing heavily though, his nostrils flared and tears running down his cheeks like it's a marathon. His whole body is shaking. "I want Niall," he whispers once Gemma removes her hand over his mouth, though Gemma's positive he didn't intend to. His voice is totally shot. 

She nods, for once not feeling offended. This isn't about her. "Okay. Yeah, okay. I'll call him and see if he can come home early." She tries to smile. "Will that be okay?"

Harry nods slowly, pieces of the world finally coming back to him. He can feel his body again, remembers where he is. The pain in his scalp and biceps is distant, but it's there. He still hasn't taken his eyes off of her. "Can we please leave?" His ears are ringing and his head hurts terribly, and he never wants to come here again. 

"Shit, Haz. Of course." She stands up quickly and extends her arm to help Harry up. He's shaky on his feet, like a newborn giraffe, but Gemma steadies him and lets him lean most of his weight against her. "Let's go home, love."

Everybody's staring once they emerge from the room. Dr. Connie is the only one who looks away from the pair as they stagger towards the door. Harry tries to close his eyes -- the people staring remind him too much of the gawking neighbors -- but the dark makes him dizzy so he reopens them. He clutches onto Gemma's shoulder and for the first time, he sincerely wishes he could just die.

He doesn't talk the entire way home. 

He doesn't think he can, first of all; he feels like he's swallowed a ton of glass and every breath he takes forces the pieces down another inch. His throat is enclosed by a searing hot fist and he's reminded by it with each gulp. There's a vicious pounding in his head, like the beat to a song he hates that's on full blast. He feels completely and utterly destroyed, and it's because he is. 

It hurts to keep his eyes open, but every time he shuts them he can see Helen's disappointed face and he can feel  _ everything _ . The pain of that day consumes him soon as his eyelids touch, no longer being a distant echo. It's loud and clear, and a thief. It's taking every piece of happiness Harry has so carefully crafted for himself. 

_ Make it stop, Gemma _ , he keeps thinking. He doesn't say it, though. How selfish would it be for the first words he's spoken to his sister in months to be a plea? The ones he was shouting at her in the office don’t count. She gives up enough for him; he can't ask for more. Harry has to stop taking, and taking, and taking, and taking.. 

But here they are, sitting in front of Niall's work in Gemma's beat-down red car. The car's been long turned off, although Gemma has yet to move. She's staring at the steering wheel, fists clenched, and God, it would be so much easier for everyone if he'd just  _ go _ . 

The thought creeps up again, and it scares him. Of all the shit he's gone through, and remembering it would be the one to break him. Harry has been sad for as long as he can remember, sure, but he's never thought about _ that _ . And now, he can't shake the idea. 

Because it  _ would _ be easier. If he left. Maybe not death, but if he went away for college, or he ran away. It'd be easier for Gemma and Niall. There's no doubting it; they're still kids. They're not supposed to be busting their asses for an ungrateful child who just takes and takes, and never gives back. 

He watches Gemma snap out of it. Out of nowhere, she sits up and takes a deep breath. She shakes out her hands and turns around to look at him in the back seat, a warm smile on her face. It's fake. So, so fake but she's trying. She hasn't tried with him in a long time. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Harry only stares at her, begging her to leave the car and never come back. He thinks he'd just wait here, if she did. Wait here and bask in the sun until he overheated and died. And since he has no one other than Niall and Gemma, nobody would come looking for him. He'd just lay there, dead and rotting, and he wouldn't bother anybody else again.

"Will you be okay out here on your own for a few minutes? I just have to go talk to him and tell him what happened."

Again, Harry doesn't respond. He can feel his whole body clench, though, like its preparing for him to say something mean and selfish, like he so often did when they talked. He doesn't. Impulse control is something he's worked on immensely, and it's one of those things he can genuinely see a difference in himself. 

Her smile falls. Her mouth is in its normal shape again. "What  _ did _ happen, H? You can tell me."

He can't. He won't. Harry flinches and shoves himself further back into his seat like a caged animal, his bones gnawing at his skin. His legs keep twitching like they're begging him to run. 

"Harry -- "

He pulls his knees up and shields himself by locking his arms around his head. The seat belt is digging into his stomach, but he doesn't care. He keeps his arms firm around his ears and he sets his head on his knee. If he can't close his eyes, then he'll try to block everything out. All he wants is to block everything out. He wants it all to go away.

He hears the muffled sound of the car door opening and closing, and he knows Gemma's gone. He knows, logically, he's alone in this car. But what if he's not, and he's back at fourteen years old, sobbing into his pillow. Any minute now, Helen will be grabbing his arms away from his face and telling him to  _ look at her, dammit _ . 

Everything hurts more than it ever has before. It's like for the last two years he has been working on accepting Helen's faults and adapting to his new life, and he hasn't prioritized actually working through any of it. And now he has no choice: his heart is ripping out of his chest, and he has to pick it up and shove it back in his chest. Then he has to find a needle and thread, and stitch himself back up. 

All of its going to hurt. He doesn't have the guts to do it. And now, he's short of a therapist and off his medication. . . he's entirely on his own. A part of him wonders if he had kept up with his medication, would he feel this bad right now? There's no telling, but one thing is for certain: Niall and Gemma will be livid when they find out he hasn't been taking his antidepressants. 

The tiny little pills that were supposed to keep his brain in check are expensive, and he has new ones coming in for the next month shortly. Hundreds of dollars are being stored away in his room, and he can't tell anyone about it. When Niall had given him his most recent refill, Harry felt so guilty that he nearly told him. But even Niall, who tries to be so sensitive with him, wouldn't let him off the hook easy about this. 

Harry sighs. Why couldn't God or whoever just put things where they belonged in his head?

A warmth spreads through his body when he realizes what this means. He has three months of pills stored inside the bottom drawer of his nightstand. If he keeps saving them, eventually, he'll have enough.  _ He's _ already had enough, might as well just do it if he has the means to for real. 

He's almost glad when the door opens. Almost, because when he looks up, Gemma is wiping away tears with her thumb and Niall looks stressed and exhausted, more than usual. A part of him burns with selfishness;  _ they _ aren't relieved to see  _ him _ . Niall gets in the backseat with Harry, leaving Gemma to herself in the front, and Harry can't help but cry more. 

He doesn't hate crying. Maybe he should, because everybody else does. Gemma only cries when she thinks Harry doesn't hear her, and Niall only gets a little teary eyed when Harry's being depressing. Louis almost never cried around him, said it made him feel weak. But for Harry, to know that his body is going through the same thing is brain is and that he's not just sad and it's not just all in his head, helps. More than it should. 

"Don't cry, it's okay." Niall slides to the middle and, like its instinct, Harry clings onto his middle like it's all he has left. It feels like it is. 

It's no secret why Harry's so touchy all of them time. He spent years of learning how to heal wounds with a simple touch, because Helen taught him how. It used to make Niall sick to his stomach -- he's never met a teenager who liked to cuddle so much -- especially because he knows that's how his mother trained him to be. She conditioned him to touch when he's sad, or happy, or angry, and no, Harry isn't jerking Niall off, but it's in the same realm of intimacy. 

It's one of those things that Harry will look back and cringe at when he's older. If he ever gets older. 

But, for now, Harry cries into Niall's neck and Niall lets him. At this point, that's all Niall can really do. He can't ask what happened, can't take back Harry's childhood. He just has to hope that Harry will let Niall keep holding him. 

When they get home, Harry doesn't smile when Belle comes prancing up to him. She circles around him, tail wagging, and he lowers himself onto the floor ungracefully. She licks at his face and instead of welcoming it like he usually would, he keeps tugging her away, mentally telling her to stop. Normally, he'd be laughing and squirming, but right now, it's irritating.

She starts to gently lick at his arm and he almost starts crying again. Her tongue sweeps grossly across the four bloodied, moon-shaped cuts on his arm, while his other arm lays untouched, but he's confident if he let her, she'd get there next. 

"Stop, babe," Harry murmurs, moving her head. His throat burns. "You can't help. I'm sorry."

She doesn't stop trying to heal his wounds herself, so Harry sighs and stands. He walks to the bathroom, ignoring how Belle is circling his feet protectively, ignores how Niall and Gemma watch with sad eyes when Harry shuts Belle out of the bathroom. She huffs a bit and then splays herself outside the door, and she won't move until Harry's out of the shower. 

At least Harry has one friend. 

He's in the bathroom for an hour. For the first fifteen minutes he lets himself cry on the toilet seat, recalling every single second of the pain he had endured. Today, and the day Helen got arrested, and the night she had hurt him. He remembers how hard she had hit him, how she used their toys punishingly instead of playfully. He remembers how disappointed he had made her, and how when she was finished, she left him alone. She just glared at him, told him out bad he had been, and left. 

Harry went to Gemma's room that night, lonely and terrified his mother was going to return. She had been tapping away at her phone, and when she looked up, she looked annoyed. Harry remembers being petrified she was going to turn him away, but she set her phone aside and patted at the bed wordlessly. She probably thought he had another nightmare, or something; she was always gentle about his anxieties, going out of her way to try and ease them. He wonders if she suspects that something else happened that night now that she knows what she knows, that is wasn't a nightmare his brain conjured up, but rather one he was living. 

When he's done throwing himself a pity-party, he hoists himself up onto the sink and begins to clean his cuts. He does it without really thinking about, simply grabbing a washcloth and lathering it in soap, but once he starts to dab at the cuts and wipes off the blood, he's filled with a sense of peace. Like he hurt himself, yes, but at least he can fix this. At least he can stitch up these wounds without too much pain. 

Once he's done with that and both arms are filled with a dull ache, one that makes his heart jump, he turns on the shower. At first he sets it to a normal temperature, but once he thinks about it, he turns it to cold. Niall's going to want a shower later, and maybe Gemma, too. He takes enough. He can leave them hot water. He can do that. 

He keeps his clothes on because he doesn't want to see what's underneath. Because behind the layers of clothing is skin that's wrapped around his bones that have never belonged to him. It's marked with Helen's fingertips like a brand and he hates it. He hates her. He hates what she's done to him. 

As he carefully washes the indents on his head, a seed of doubt quickly blossoms into a wildflower. Because ninety-five percent of the time, Helen took it at Harry's pace. In the beginning, she left him no choice, but she was just showing him what he really wanted. He wouldn't have known otherwise. She was just trying to help him heal and he knows for a fact that he had helped her heal, so really, was it all that bad? There had been one bad night, one horrid, terrifying night, but the next night she was so good to him. She could be forgiven for that one night. Parents punish and reward their children with a vast number of different methods; she was just doing her job. 

A burst of anger flares up in his stomach and explodes. He can feel himself being ripped back into time, what little progress he had made being snatched away, and he hates it. He's sitting here, in freezing cold water, telling himself that it's his fault. And he knows it's not -- he's done hours and hours of research, read hundreds of different blogs telling him he's not alone -- but a part of him is telling him that it is. And because it's the easy thing to do, and because he's weak, he lets that side win. 

A knock at the door sends his heart up his throat and he clenches his eyes eyes shut tightly. It's Gemma. "Hazza, you've been in there for an hour, love. Are you alright? Do you need help?"

Harry bites down on his lip harshly. Instead of a verbal response, he shuts off the water and steps out of the shower; it's a sign of life, it's enough. It's obvious that's all she's looking for. His clothes are dripping with the water they've absorbed, and he realizes he can't hide this from Gemma or Niall. He hasn't brought a spare change of clothes and there's no way in hell he's going to hobble to his bathroom in only a towel, so he takes a deep breath and opens the bathroom door. 

Gemma and Belle are both waiting for him, and they both perk up when they see him, but only Belle stays excited. She licks at his feet and her tail wags, but Gemma's staring at him with a sad expression. He stares at her back. What's he supposed to do?

They have a silent conversation, then. Or, more like Gemma has a conversation with herself while Harry just stands there, water dripping everywhere, broken, and staring at her. Her eyes travel up and down his body, desperate to find a piece of her brother left but there's  _ nothing _ . The light in his eyes is gone and he's shattered. 

Niall seems to realize he's finally out because Harry hears the tapping of a spoon in the kitchen and feet walking towards him. Harry wants to cry, because now Niall's going to know that he showered in his clothes now, too, and he hates making Niall upset. Niall never loses his patience with Harry, and still, every time Harry does something stupid, he feels like it's going to be the first time that Niall finally snaps. 

The breath Niall holds in when he sees Harry is visible. He looks like he's seeing a ghost, and he's not sure how to react. After a moment, he hesitantly asks, "Did you. . . Did you shower in your clothes?" He sounds upset. 

He takes a shuddering breath, wrapping his arms around himself. Water drips off him quicker then, because of his movements. "I just wanna go to bed."

It's the first time he really, truly hears his voice and it breaks him down even more. His voice doesn't sound like his own; it's broken and shot, so obviously overused. His own bloody voice isn't his own anymore, what's left of him? Three hours ago he was running around the house, chasing Belle and confusing her by hiding behind things, and now, he's standing before them, hopeless. 

It seems to take the same toll on Niall. He flinches, but quickly smooths it over and tries to pretend like Harry's the same Harry. The act doesn't work though, and it never could; Harry's never known who he was. 

His identity was shaped by Helen, both directly and indirectly. Directly, because of what she did, and indirectly, because she was the person Harry looked to most when he didn't know what to do. He got most of his likes and dislikes from her. Most of his most prominent attributes can be traced back to her, and he hates it. Even the parts of himself he likes, they aren't him. 

He got his fierceness from Gemma. As a child, he remembers watching her with admiration when she got into rows with their mum. She always stood her ground, always went for the weak spots in people. And when she loves something, it consumes her, for better or for worse. He tries to be like that, too.

Louis is in the rest of him, and Harry can honestly say he's never been negatively impacted by him, aside from missing him so profoundly. Louis gave him his humor, his laugh, his hobbies. In high school, even though Louis was the one being bullied and two grades higher, he still looked after Harry. 

Gemma clears her throat, breaking the silence. "It's only four so I won't let you sleep for long, but you can take a nap if you'd like. I'll wake you at six? When dinner's done?"

Harry doesn't show any sign of understanding. He simply walks away and wrap his arms tighter around his middle, his heart beating in the pattern of Belle's claws hitting the floor. This time, he doesn't shut the door on her, and she seems grateful. 

"Door open!" Niall calls, but Harry ignores him. He doesn't want his stupid door open, and it's his, so he can do what he wants with it. 

He doesn't bother changing out of his wet clothes. He ignores the itch the wet material dragging around his smooth skin and slides into bed. Harry allows Belle to get comfortable underneath the covers first, and once she's settled, he cocoons around her, burying his face in her neck. He pulls the duvet over them entirely, and he hopes Belle can protect him from the dark.

_ It's the beginning. He's seven. He's scared.  _

_ There's a weight holding him down, and he can't escape it. It's heavy and radiates darkness, like a blanket that can't keep the cold out. The window is allowing all of the night to come pouring in, and he wants to shut it, but he can't move. He can't move, can't speak. _

_ "It's going to be okay," she keeps saying, her hands traveling everywhere. He wants to cry, but he can't do that, either; he's just laying there in his bed, helpless and afraid. "You're such a good boy for me." _

_ Suddenly, Gemma appears by his side. She looks angry, features pointed. "Why aren't you stopping her?" she spits, digging her nails into his chest. "Stop her, Harry. Stop her. Don't make me do it." Harry can't do anything but stare. Her fists come down on his chest, forceful and demanding. "Stop her, dammit! Do something, anything! She's my mother too!"  _

_ Her fists beat him until he's sure his bones are turned to jelly. She still looks mad, even when she's done painting him black and blue. "I can't do this anymore," she tells him sternly. "You ruin everything." And before he knows what's happening, Gemma is shooting herself in the head and he can finally scream.  _

Hands shake him awake. 

Harry jolts awake and a small gasp leaves his lips, eyes flying open. His hands immediately go to push away whoever's touching him, but stop when he realizes it's Niall. Relieved, he relaxes in bed again, trying to get his heart to calm down. In the meantime, Niall pets Belle's head. Harry's nightmares have never really gone away, although they've gotten less graphic over the years, and there's no real point in discussing them or making a big deal out of it. It's just how it is. 

Harry coughs a bit and the coldness sweeps in all at once, squeezing him like a vice. He can't process the dream, because suddenly Niall looks angry.

"You slept in your clothes," he says blankly. "Your soaking wet clothes."

Harry doesn't say anything. He pulls the duvet around him tighter, hoping that Niall will let him and Belle be. She's sound asleep still, jowls flapping every few seconds with a breath. He doesn't want to talk to anybody or see anybody, let alone be reprimanded. 

"You've soaked the whole bed, Harry. Jesus."

He shrugs, closing his eyes. He still feels so tired. "I'll wash the sheets," he promises, though he doesn't really mean it. The sheets will dry on their own. 

Niall sighs. "I don't care about the bed sheets. You shouldn't be sleeping in wet clothes. There's no way that's comfortable."

"I slept fine." Which is true, technically, aside from the nightmares, but it sounds sarcastic and guarded.

It makes Niall's gut twist. "Please change your clothes. When you've finished, dinner's done."

Neither of those options sound pleasant. He just nods. Niall leaves his room after hesitantly closing the door and the dog finally gets up, like she was waiting for him to leave. She huffs and snuggles closer to Harry. After a second, though, she seems to decide against it and wiggles her way out of bed, leaving Harry cold and alone while she takes the floor. 

He really should get undressed, so he gets out of bed and and bends down to pull a box from under his bed. It's the box of old things Gemma wasn't too happy about letting him keep but let him keep anyway, and in an attempt to distract himself from Helen's old things, he focuses on how itchy and tight his skin feels. 

His thoughts get tripped up when his fingers brush across a toy bear his father got him for his first birthday after Helen and Des divorced, and abruptly, a burn of desire for his father's arms around him hits his chest. 

Des and Harry were never terribly close, but their relationship was nice and Harry never dreaded seeing his father. He loved him and Des loved him, yet Des left Harry. Des, willingly and gleefully, bowed out of Harry's life without giving Harry any time to try and catch his breath after losing his mother. 

He's never really coped with Des' death, he realizes as tears prickle his eyes painfully. He had been so caught up in losing his mother and being found out, when Gemma told him what Des had done, Harry had puked and cried, but never talked about it after. He talked about it with Nancy occasionally, and Harry always thought those parts of the meetings were nice, but they usually talked about Des taking him up north or the time he took Harry ice skating and broke his arm, not how he shot himself in the head because of what Harry and Helen did together. 

He shoves the bear back in the box and briefly wonders if the Styles family has a history of suicide. 

Quickly brushing past all the other hurtful things -- a card Helen wrote him for his fourteenth birthday, the copy of the official document saying Niall and Gemma are his legal guardians, Louis' old soccer jersey, Robin's blue tie -- he finally found what he desired: Niall's ratty, gray BULLDOGS sweatshirt from that day. 

He smiles down at sadly it as he wrinkles the fabric with his hands. He hadn't taken the sweatshirt off for almost a month after, and then he never put it back on once Gemma convinced him that he needed to take it off. But today, he strips off his damp T-shirt and replaces it with said sweatshirt. He does it quickly and without looking at his body; sometimes, being naked makes him feel needlessly antsy.

He shoves the box back under his bed, makes himself a quick promise of looking through it when he gets a chance, and changes his underwear and pants. He doesn't feel better, though being out of damp clothes makes his skin happy. He still wants to sleep until the sun goes down, and then sleep more. 

Depression is a tricky thing; it comes and goes, like an unwelcome guest. He doesn't know if the heaviness in his chest is from his depression or his anxiety, or maybe he's just sad, but he's going to try to not let it get the best of him. He's sick of throwing himself down black holes of nothing because it never does him any good. Now, he can either go eat dinner or stay in bed; he asks himself what a normal person would do.

After deciding he'll wash his bedding later, he lets the scent of bacon and potatoes guide him to the kitchen. Gemma is setting the table when she sees him, and for once, she doesn't try to fake a smile. She lets her exhaustion show, like an act of support somehow; he's not the only one who wants to crawl under a rock and never come back out.

"Hey, Haz," she murmurs. "Breakfast for dinner sound good?" 

She doesn't wait for his reply, because if he says no, it wouldn't matter anyway. He drags himself over and sits at the table, while Belle obediently lays next to him instead of begging for food; she knows by now that Harry will give her whatever he doesn't eat at the end. It's a bit shit that she flunked out of becoming a service dog, because she loves and takes care of Harry just fine. She could've really helped someone with legitimate problems. 

"Did you sleep well?" Gemma wonders, sitting down next to him again. 

A part of Harry is telling himself to keep up the act of ignoring Gemma. She's much nicer to him now, and maybe he wants to be selfish and make sure she stays nice. But he also knows that one day he'll regret ignoring her, wonder what kinds of fun the could've had together. Now's the perfect opportunity to put this behind them, so Harry takes a small breath and replies, "I'm fine." It's not what she asked, but it's what she meant, and Harry's not dumb. 

Him responding is a small victory for Gemma, and as a result, she tries to get him to keep it up. "That's good." Niall sets a plate before both of them; Gemma picks up her fork while Harry just stares. "Oh, and by the way, I already called a different clinic for a new therapist for you. It's, like, an hour away, but their reviews are stellar and -- "

Harry shakes his head, not looking up from his plate. "I don't want another therapist." He's already used to the burn of his throat whenever he speaks. It's like a reminder that today actually did happen and he's not crazy. 

Sometimes, mostly at night, he can almost convince himself that none of it actually happened. That, somehow, his brain got it all wrong and Helen was never inappropriate with him, that she was just a normal, kind mother and he made the whole thing up. He thinks that maybe Niall believes him and Gemma knows he's lying and that nothing wrong happened, and that's why she can be so mean to him. 

But then he snaps out of it and remembers everything she did. A kid couldn't make any of that up. She hurt him and she used him, and there's no way to change it. 

"Oh." The surprise in Gemma's voice is clear, but she tries to cover it with fake enthusiasm. "Well, I'm sure Nancy would love to start seeing you again."

Harry shakes his head again, picking up his fork. He stabs a piece of bacon for something to do. He has no plans to actually eat it right now. "I don't want Nancy back. I don't. . . ” he sighs. "I don't want to do therapy anymore."

Maybe it's not the truth. Therapy might not help him as much as it used to before, but he likes feeling like he's able to talk it out with someone who gets paid to listen to him. That way, he can convince himself he's not being a burden or selfish. And it gets him out of the house, which is becoming a rare occurrence nowadays; both Gemma and Niall have picked up extra shifts to cover the flat's bills, and Harry refuses to go out by himself, unless it's taking Belle out to use the bathroom. 

Niall finally sits down at the table with his own plate and instantly, he shuts Harry down. "That's not happening. You're going to therapy." He uses an authoritative tone that he might use at work when clients are being snippy, but it does nothing here. Harry's not going to be intimidated, especially when he knows how to bend both of them to get what he wants. 

If Niall's going to go against him on this, though, there's no way Gemma will agree to it, either. He needs to make sure they listen to him  _ now _ because he's petrified. Going to yet another therapist fucking terrifies him after what happened today. Angrily, he snaps, "I don't want to see Nancy again, and the thought of trying a new therapist again makes me want to fucking stab myself, so -- "

He's cut off by two sharp glares. Niall goes first. "Don't talk like that, Harry," he demands seriously. "Don't say shit you don't mean, especially about that."

A laugh bubbles in his chest.  _ Who says he doesn't mean it?  _ He forces it down and sighs. "Today couldn't have gone worse, okay?" he explains, trying to keep his tone light. "The idea of doing it all over again scares the shit out of me."

Gemma sets down her fork. "Maybe this time Niall or I could sit in with you. To keep things under control." 

"That's even worse," Harry rejects quickly. _ They don't understand.  _ "There's stuff I don't want you guys to hear."

Niall nods, like this makes everything clearer. "Exactly. You don't talk to us about some things, and you should talk about it with  _ someone _ ."

It makes sense, it does. Still, Harry's quick to argue. "I've been talking about it with someone for  _ two years. _ Nothing I'm willing to talk about can be analyzed any further." 

Harry can physically see Niall give up on the conversation. His shoulders sag, his face drops, and his fingers twitch like he wants to say something, but he doesn't have the energy to. The room stays silent, leaving everyone to their own thoughts. 

Harry isn't surprised where his goes. He's never, ever thought of death as more than an idea but as of today, it becomes more than that. It becomes a possibility, a path that he can take _ easily _ . Every time he's given a moment to think, his brain goes there. It's like he can't stop thinking about it, like he's addicted to it. As if it's an instinct. 

It scares him.

But look at them. Gemma and Niall. Niall's had a long day at work, and now he probably wants to be back there. Home is stressful and irritating. And Gemma clearly can't stand the way things are. She hasn't completely stepped up, and maybe if Harry goes away, she won't have to. Maybe for once, Harry can give her what she wants. 

He wonders what his dad thought before he committed suicide. Was it a rush of thoughts that made no sense and he needed to quiet it? Or was it a calm decision that felt necessary to make? And was Gemma angry about it, or does she understand? Would she understand it if Harry did it?

"Gem," he says tentatively. He's got to be strategic about this, and asking is stupid, but this question has been itching at him for a long time now. "You know. . . you know Dad's funeral?" 

It's bold. Des is barely mentioned, and if he is at all, it's in relation to Helen. Bringing him up is sure to raise red flags. He's just hoping they're too tired to look too far into it.

Gemma looks at Niall as if to make sure he's heard it, too. And then she's looking at Harry, so clearly confused. "Yeah, H. Of course. What about it?"

"I didn't go," Harry remembers. He refused to, unable to accept that another thing changed so drastically. Gemma went, though. She went with Louis, because Niall had to stay with Harry and Louis went on vacations all the time with Des and Harry. Louis deserved to say goodbye too, even if he hated funerals. 

Gemma nods once. "Right. I know, I remember." Her voice is tight and restricted. Her eyes are pleading him to stop talking.

Harry takes a deep breath. The more he drags this conversation out, the more Niall and Gemma are going to worry, so he just needs to ask. "How'd they, like, I know he -- I mean, like." He takes another deep breath and sits up, squirming a little in his seat. "I know that he shot himself in the head. Or, like, his mouth or whatever." Gemma flinches noticeably and in response, Niall rests his hand on her forearm.

"Yeah, Haz. He did. What. . . Why do you care about this all of the sudden?"

"I've always cared," Harry argues, though he knows that's not what she means. It's not exactly normal to be asking about about something like this. "It's just. I don't know. How'd they cover it up?"

Gemma's narrowing her eyes at him now. "What do you mean?"

"At his funeral. When Dad was in his coffin. How'd they hide it?"

Gemma sets her fork down and sits back against the kitchen chairs. He guesses she lost her appetite. "He didn't have an open casket."

"Oh," is all he says. In reality, though, with the new information Harry decides he won't do it that way. He wouldn't deny Niall or Gemma of seeing him one last time. Besides, where would he even buy a gun? And he's heard the horror stories; he knows how easy it is to miss and then wake up with a hole in your face at a hospital. The blood and gore would be too much to put on Gemma or Niall, anyways, and --

Harry's grip tightens on his fork. God, is he really thinking about this? He doesn't want to die, he doesn't. Sure, it'd be easier for everyone if he was, but. . . 

"Can I go to bed?" Harry blurts, his thoughts scaring him too much. He's up and out of his seat before either of them answer. A hand grabs his arm and he can feel every fiber of his being flinch away from it. He rips his arm away from the soft touch with too much force and glares at its owner, Gemma. "Do not fucking touch me." It's viscous, too demanding. He's bound to scare them, if he hasn't already. 

In the beginning, if it wasn't him that initiated the touching or he wasn't expecting it, he'd flinch so badly you'd think he was burned. He got over that quickly, though, because he knew that Niall and Gemma didn't want to hurt him, and because he's a generally touchy person himself. But sometimes, when he's having a bad day, he doesn't like to be touched. Those days are rare, and they always make them antsy.

Gemma removes her hand but she's still looking at him in concern. "You've not once talked about Dad's death, Harry. Don't be surprised that I'm not just gonna answer a question and then let it go."

It's too much for Harry. The thoughts in his head scare him too badly and he doesn't want Gemma or Niall to even question what he's referring to, so of course, like he always does, he snaps. He can feel himself give into the tension, whatever it takes to get off the subject of his dad. "I haven't talked about it because you've never brought it up," Harry snaps, glaring. "He was your fucking father, you know. You can't just pretend nothing ever happened."

She looks hurt. "I know that. Don't act like I didn't care about him."

"Did you?" he fires back, determined. If he digs deep enough, she'll leave him alone for the rest of the night, and tomorrow, too, if he's lucky. "Because half the time we were over his house, you were always bitchy and quiet. You never went on trips with us, you never -- "

"I _ loved  _ him!" she seethes, eyes wet. 

Harry scoffs meanly. He doesn't even feel like himself anymore. "Did he know that? 'Cause I really don't think he did."

She takes a small step back and makes a small wounded noise. _ There, _ Harry thinks. It's done. He can retreat to his room and sort himself out before he bursts at the seams. Harry goes to turn around, but Niall abruptly stands up. 

Harry can't hurt Niall; Niall's much too resilient. The only way to get Niall off his case is to make him feel so incredibly guilty that he can't even think straight. Harry shouldn't know how to play them so easily. He hasn't been this vicious in almost a year, but he's still so, so good at it.

"You don't fucking talk to your sister like that, you hear me?" Niall hisses, moving to wrap his arm around Gemma's waist. His touch seems to knock her out of whatever trance she's in, because she shakes her head and leaves the room. They both watch her go, and when her bedroom door closes, he turns back to Harry. "She does everything for you. What would you put shit like that in her head?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

A layer of Niall's anger is stripped away. It's too fucking easy. "I know you are. But seriously, what the hell was that?"

"I don't know," he says again. With more emotion this time, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry's not going to cut it, bud," Niall says softly.

"I know that, Ni." Tears aren't supposed to be part of this act, but they come, and they come strong. "I don't know why I said that. It's just. . ." He clutches onto the pity card, because it's all he's got. His anger and smarts have flown out the window. He sniffles. "Today was just so hard, you know? I finally felt like I was getting to a better place and I was knocked down so easily, it just scared me. I spent so long getting better and one shit appointment breaks me."

Niall's face melts into the biggest puddle of pity Harry's ever seen, and he's seen a lot of it. "Harry," he murmurs sadly. 

"And I didn't want to hurt Gemma. I  _ don't _ want to hurt her." Harry sniffles again, just for the effect. "I don't want to go back to the way things were, you know?"

And with that, Niall's done for. "Never, Harry. I won't let it. You'll be okay, okay?"

Harry wipes at his tears, because he knows everything is done. Niall and Gemma should leave him alone for the rest of the night. They might even let him sleep in tomorrow morning. It's possible they'll get into an argument over Harry -- Niall will defend him, Gemma will tell Niall that he's too easy on him -- and that'll mean Harry won't have to sit at the dining table tomorrow for breakfast or lunch, because Gemma won't be. She knows how to guilt Niall into what she wants, too. 

(Maybe Harry's like this because he's being raised by two emotionally immature kids. Surely, two normal, happy parents wouldn't let this happen. They would see right through Harry. But Gemma and Niall are two reckless, tired kids who are blinded with the fear that they're going to fuck Harry up more.)

As soon as Harry gets to his room, he huddles underneath the blankets. He feels suffocated and hot, especially with Belle snuggled up close to him, but he doesn't care. This way, he can concentrate on calming down and not doing something stupid. 

Because it would be stupid, wouldn't it? Killing himself. There's a reason he's never given it too much thought, isn't there? He's never been one for hope, but he's also never really felt absolutely never-going-to-come-back-from-this until now. Which, now that he thinks about it, he really shouldn't be feeling this way. He's overreacting; all Dr. Connie was trying to do is help. Yes, she crossed a line, but Harry doesn't understand why he's so torn up over it. He's stronger than this.

He doesn't want to die. He remembers the devastation that consumed him when Gemma told him about Des, even if it was brief and he distanced himself from it, Harry had felt it. He's already a shitty brother, there's no way he could do that to Gemma. She's done so much for him, lost so much _ because  _ of him, he won't add to her stress. He can't. And besides, what would Belle do without him?

This calms him down slightly. Harry hopes it will be enough to make him stay.

The next morning, after a very terrible nightmare involving a gun and too much blood, Harry decides he won't let himself do this, he won't watch himself sink when he still has some control. He needs to act before it becomes too late and the thoughts become too loud, and before he does anything stupid. 

He goes to Niall and Gemma with confidence that they will help. It does more harm than good. 

It's early, only five in the morning, so Niall still has two hours to get to work. Gemma doesn't work her job at the diner today, but she's running errands all day. The only time today they'll all be in the same place and in a decent mood is now. Harry asks them to sit down at the dining table with a shaky, scratchy voice and they do tiredly. Belle eases some of the tension by tapping her tail against the ground with a dopey smile.

"Look," Harry starts off, but then stops. He needs to think this out, but he also needs to just say it. "I. Well. I don't know, it's just -- " How does he put it into words?  _ I want to die, but not really, and not enough to actually do it. And there's nothing you can really do.  _ That wouldn't work. Besides, he doesn't know if he can get the words out his throat around the lump in his throat. 

"Haz," Gemma says tiredly. Her lips are almost sucking on her coffee mug, like she doesn't possess the energy to actually lift the cup to drink. "Say whatever it is you want. Lord knows you have a way with words."

Harry winces at the same time Niall rolls his eyes at her. Niall goes to say something, but Harry quickly cuts him off. "No arguing please," he rushes out. They argue enough over him as it is, and he doesn't want to see it up close. Niall and Gemma both shoot each other a rude look, but that's it. "I'm sorry about last night."

She lifts an eyebrow, as in _ good, you should be. _ It doesn't move the conversation forward.

"I said some really shitty, untruthful things," Harry continues, trying to actually take some accountability over his life for once. "Gems, Dad knew you loved him. We both know he thought the world of you, and I was just mad, and I know that's not an excuse." Harry's hands grip onto his blanket he dragged from his room, flexing instinctively around the bottles of unopened antidepressants sitting underneath it. "There's a reason why I brought up Dad's death, though." His voice is already wavering. 

Niall sits up, seemingly more interested in the conversation. He knows Harry, can read him like a book. He knows whatever Harry's about to say is going to hurt, and it's going to hurt badly. 

Bringing up Des is a great transition into what Harry's feeling, but he can't get himself to say the words  _ suicide _ or  _ death  _ while referring to himself, so he takes a different route. "I wanted to tell you guys something, but I don't want you to be mad. Promise me you won't get mad."

Gemma shakes her head instantly. She's always mad, anyway, so he should've known better than to ask. "I'm not promising anything. That's not fair." 

A small scoff falls from Niall as he gives a sharp look as he says, "Of course, Haz. We won't get mad."

Harry nods anxiously. At least Niall's going to be on his side, at least he's not entirely alone. "Good. Because I know it's stupid and selfish and I shouldn't have done it, but -- "

"Harry," Gemma says, exasperated. "Just say it."

So Harry does, but not with words. He shakily fishes the three bottles of full medication out from under his blanket, and carefully sets them in the center of the table like a display. _ Look, here are all my failures. _

Gemma's face immediately twists in anger and before she can get mad, Harry tries to explain himself. "I know, okay? _I know_. It was stupid and irresponsible and I know how expensive these are."

"Then why the fuck have you not been taking them?" she spits, livid. Her voice is pure ice. 

Harry scrambles frantically for an answer. "Because they made me all hazy and everything felt like a blur. Like everything was going so fast, but I felt so slow, and I started having these really bad headaches -- "

Gemma won't accept it; she doesn't think it's a good enough excuse. "Then you should have fucking told us, Harry! We could've gotten you on new ones."

_ She doesn't understand, she never understands, why does no one understand? _ "I didn't want to keep trying new ones. None of them have worked so far." His voice is becoming more and more vulnerable. There's a build up in his chest and his thoughts are scrambling in an attempt to gather an army so he can put back up his walls. It's exhausting.

She rolls her eyes, setting down her coffee mug with enough force that some of the coffee sloshes out. "We just haven't found the right one, it doesn't have to be so fucking complicated. We could've simply lowered your dosage."

_ No one's ever going to understand. _ "It's not that simple, though. It's hell adjusting to them, okay? I get exhausted and irritable, and it makes me feel like I'm crawling out of my skin. And then if I do finally adjust to it, there's always side effects, so I have to be taken off of that one and put on another, and forced to adjust to it again. I don't want to do it again."

"So you felt a little down and had a few headaches," she says condescendingly. "Can't you just deal with it?"

And that's. . . that's not _ fair _ . It makes his ribs tighten around his heart, squeezing painfully. "I'm so _ fucked _ in the head that I'm going to be taking these for the rest of my life, for fuck’s sake!" he shouts, beyond hurt. "I don't want to have to just  _ deal with it _ . And the ones before these wouldn't let me sleep, and the one before those made me nauseous and dizzy, and the ones before that -- "

"Okay, I get it Harry. Jesus Christ."

"No you fucking don't! That's the problem! It's  _ my _ body, it's  _ my _ brain. You don't get  _ any _ of it."

She sits back, unimpressed. "I don't know what you want me to do." Her voice is hollow. "You want to stop doing therapy and you haven't been keeping up with your meds. . . There's not a fucking  _ cure _ , Harry. You have to at least  _ try _ ."

He makes a wounded noise. His fingers move on their own volition, curling into his palm as a reflex. He tries so bloody hard, what is she on about? He pulls himself out of bed every morning and does his school work without being asked to, he tells Niall how he's feeling all of the time. He tries. He tries so hard. 

"I do try, Gemma. I'm trying so fucking hard. This is me, right now, trying to get better."

She scrubs a tired hand down her face. It makes her look older than she really is. "Clearly, you aren't trying hard enough."

"Fuck you," Harry spits angrily, though tears are clouding his eyes. He didn't want to argue, he didn't want to get mad, he wanted to have a nice conversation about how he can get better. "You promised you wouldn't get mad."

"Niall promised that," she points out dryly. 

He narrows his eyes. "Yeah, well, maybe I'd be better off with Niall."

It makes her flinch slightly, but he doesn't regret saying it. In some ways, it's true. He loves his sister and he doesn't want to be apart from her, but she hates him and he can't take it sometimes. "And that's not even why I wanted to talk to you guys."

She grumbles something and grabs her coffee mug again. "Great, there's more. There's always more with you."

"Stop being so mean, okay?" Harry shouts, voice dripping with pleas. He sounds like a little kid talking to their playground bully. The comparison seems spot on right now. "I know you didn't ask for this, but neither did I." She stays silent, matching Niall's harmony of quiet, and Harry is so close to losing it, he can practically feel the seams of his brain start to tear. "You still think it was my fault, don't you?" His voice is so quiet, so hurt.

Her silence says enough. 

"I can't believe this," Harry whispers, running his shaking hands through his hair. His nails get caught on the cuts in his scalp and he relishes in the pain it causes. "I was seven years old, Gemma."

"By the end of it you were fourteen. You knew better."

"I didn't," Harry argues in disbelief. "I wasn’t good at making close friendships, so all I had was Louis and you. And Louis was always sexually active, and so were you, and I just. She _told me_ it was _okay._ She told me it was okay, and that she was keeping me safe. That she was protecting me."

She raises her chin. "So you thought all the others boys in school fucked their mothers?"

Harry's losing his ability to breathe. " _ Yes _ ." he breathes out, and then thinks about it for a moment. It's too hard; his brain is going haywire. "Well,  _ no _ . I don't know what I thought. But I trusted her, and I was so sad after Robin died."

"So was I." She's looking at him as though he's the bad one. He might not be innocent in all of this, but he can't be the one to blame for it all, can he?

A sob jumps from his throat. "Stop, okay?  _ Stop _ . I didn't want it, alright? Especially in the beginning. I cried so loudly the first time she came into my room and she didn't stop. She came back the next night, and the next, and when I locked my door, she." Another cry. "She was so mad at me. I don't know. I got used to it. And sure, at the time, I enjoyed it. I thought it was just a game."

"Fuck that," Gemma seethes, relentless. "You could've came to me."

"I did!" Harry cries, shaking his head. His nails dig deeper into his skin, begging for blood. He didn’t realize he was clutching at his forearm. "Almost a month before she got caught. I came into your room, and you held me, and you let me sleep in your bed."

"You didn't say a  _ word _ ."

"I couldn't," Harry argues. "I was so scared, you don't -- you don't know what she did to me that night."

Something changes in her face. Disgust mixed with a little disbelief. "Mum would never hurt you, Harry." It's almost a threat.  _ Don't you fucking dare _ , it screams. "She fucked around with you, and that's disgusting, but she never physically hurt you. She wouldn't."

Fuck this. Fuck everything. Harry takes a deep breath and builds up just enough air in his lungs to bite back. "I want to fucking kill myself," he hisses, eyes narrowed. "That's why I was asking about Dad, that's why I wanted to talk to you. Because I'm fucking scared shitless, okay? Ever since yesterday, I just keep thinking about all the different ways I could do it. How it would be so much fucking easier for everyone."

"Stop it," she snaps. 

He doesn't. "I don't want to do it like Dad did. Too messy. I was thinking these." He brings his hand down on the bottles of pills, swatting at them and knocking them off the table. Belle barks at the noise they make when they clatter onto the ground. "I want to fucking  _ die _ , Gemma. I hope I fucking do, and I hope you find me in a pool of my own blood and you fucking choke on it, ‘cause it'll be your bloody fault."

"Stop it." It's more demanding this time. "Don't fucking talk like that. You don't mean it."

Harry lets out a noise that's a mix between a sob and a laugh. "I don' t -- I don't  _ mean it _ ? I fucking mean it." 

He stands up then, done with this conversation, and quite frankly, with life but before he could get too far, an arm is grabbing him back. He tries to pull away, but the grip is strong and he turns around to find Niall.

"What?" Harry spits out harshly. His tone makes him a fraud; he's bawling now, tears running down his face. "Finally figured out how to talk?" He still doesn't want to argue, but he's incapable of doing anything else when he's this hurt.

"Come here, Harry," Niall demands gently. His eyes are cloudy and wet, but Harry refuses to care. He tries to hug Harry, but Harry shoves him off. It's not enough to hurt but it's enough to reveal how much he's hurt. He always lets Niall hold him and cuddle him close, and now he won't.

"Leave me alone," he cries. His voice is hollow, empty, even with the tears on his cheeks. His body is slowly starting to give under all of the stress, too tired to put up much of a fight. 

"I can't do that," Niall says. He sounds serious.

Harry decides he doesn't have to deal with any of this. He's tired enough that sleep will take him if he's letting, and he's more than willing. He turns on his heel again ready to hide away from the world, but Niall seems persistent. 

"Stop, okay?" Harry pleads, turning around again. "Seriously. I just want to go to my room."

" _ You _ stop." Niall's tone is accusing, and his eyes are fierce. "I see you're trying. I see that every single day. And I'm proud of you for being honest with us, even if it was a little late."

Harry's eyes drift to the floor. He can't look at Niall's steely expression when he feels this pathetic. "Gemma's not proud," he mumbles. "She hates me." She's a foot away, but both of them ignore that.

"Fuck her," Niall spits. It causes Harry to whip his head up and eye him carefully. Niall's rarely ever this angry. "She's selfish and working through her own shit." He glares at Gemma, holding her stare. Harry doesn't look to see how Gemma's reacting. "It's not your fault and she knows it. She's just angry and hurting. But it's not a fucking excuse." His eyes fall on Harry again. "I need you to stop listening to her and keep trying, okay?"

Harry gnaws on his bottom lip. He refuses to make any promises, not when he feels like he's being swallowed by a black hole.

Niall frowns and grounds Harry by setting his hands on his shoulders. "You've got to keep trying. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"That's bullshit," Harry sniffs, looking away. "You'd get to be a kid again. You'd get to stop working so hard to take care of someone who just takes and takes and takes. You'd -- "

" _ Stop _ , goddammit." He tightens his grip on Harry's shoulders, not enough to hurt but enough to let Harry know he's serious. "Without you I'd have nothing, Harry. In the beginning, I'll admit it: I was a bit in over my head. But I wouldn't change anything now, okay?"

"I would," Harry whispers, "I'd change so much."

"You know what I mean." Niall's voice is softer now, like he knows being hard on Harry isn't going to get through to him. "I'm saying that I've created a life around you and that if you were gone, I'd be lost."

Harry doesn't budge. "You and Gemma would stop fighting so much. Don't you want that?"

"Of course, but she's the one who's given up. Not me, and definitely not you."

Harry thinks it over for a second. He lets himself believe that Gemma's the villain in this story for a moment, but it's just not true. She's hurt, bleeding all over the place, same as Harry. Niall would never accuse Harry of being at fault, so why should they blame her? She lost her mother, too. Because of Harry. 

"I want to go lay down," Harry whispers, finally looking at Niall again. "In my room."

Niall's eyes fall on his shut door, the door that Harry should've stayed behind this morning, and he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but no. Not unless you want company."

Harry scoffs and pushes Niall's hands off of him. "So that's how it's going to be now?" His voice is small. Moving into this new place was good for Harry in so many ways, especially because he has a new room of his own. He doesn't want that to be taken away. 

"You just told me that you're thinking about hurting yourself, Harry. You'll be lucky if I let you out of my sight at all in the next month."

Everything comes crashing into Harry at once and he starts crying again. When is he not crying? It's like he can't function without crying a million times a day. "I was being overdramatic," Harry tries. His tears don't help his case much. "I won't hurt myself."

"I can't trust that."

_ I can't trust you _ , Harry hears. It shreds his heart to pieces. "Ni, _ please _ . Forget I said anything. It'll blow over. I was just thinking about Dad and the idea just stuck with me, but it'll go away." He wipes viciously at his eyes. "I'll start taking my medication again and I'll start seeing Nancy again, just please let me have my room to myself."

Niall's about to reject that, Harry can tell, but suddenly, Gemma's entering the conversation again. "Niall, take the deal," she says, sounding exhausted. 

Niall's eyes go wild with anger. He turns to look at Gemma, stunned. " _ Take the deal _ ? Take the  _ fucking _ deal? This is your brother, Gemma. Not a fucking business negotiation."

"I understand that, but -- "

"Do you?" Niall runs his hands through his hair. Harry only notices now that he's stopped dying it blonde. "Do you understand it? Because I don't think you do."

"I do, Niall. He's a teenager, though, we can't watch him twenty-four seven."

"We can fucking try."

Gemma raises her chin. She won't take the bait, won't bite the words Niall's pleading her to repeat so he can defend Harry this time around. He silently dares her to accuse Harry of not trying. When she doesn't, Niall pretends she did.

"There's so many kids who don't tell their parents how they are feeling and then they find their kids dead somewhere." Harry shivers at the thought, wrapping his arms around his middle. "We should be thanking every star in the damn sky that Harry had the courage to come to us. And that he's reacting so well to being told that he  _ doesn't mean it. _ "

Is he reacting so well? If this is reacting well, then Harry would hate to see someone reacting poorly. 

Niall continues. "We still haven't talked about what happened at the therapist's office the other day, but that and now this? It doesn't take a psychiatrist to realize he's losing his shit." He shoots Harry a _ no offense _ look before fixing his glare back on Gemma. "He's tucked away his traumas for too long and now they are all demanding his attention at once. Helen, Des, Robin, Louis -- he's not had any time or energy to cope with any of it. But now he can't ignore it."

He wants to slip away to his room, and he's pretty sure that Niall wouldn't notice if he did. He wants to sleep, even if he left his blanket sitting on the dining chair. But he's frozen to his spot, watching them argue. He can't help but notice how well Niall is at seeing through his bullshit, and maybe,  _ maybe  _ somebody understands, even if it's only a little.

"So you're an expert in all things Harry now?" Gemma spits, rolling her eyes. 

Niall nods. "I think I've gotten to know him fairly well in the last few years, yes."

She's silent for a minute, but it's clear she's boiling with anger and thinking of something to spit. Finally, she says, "We aren't his parents. And if it wasn't for me, you would've gotten to take care of him. So stop trying to play the hero in a story that doesn't have a happy ending."

It shouldn't hurt so much, especially because it's the truth, but it does. Harry wants to believe that one day he'll be able to forget about all of this, that he'll get better sometime eventually. But he knows that's just a pipe dream, and he's got to get used to being damaged.

"That's bullshit," Niall hisses, stomping forward. " _ I'm _ the one who offered to step in at the beginning. If it wasn't for me, Harry would've been put in the system."

"He's my brother," she says calmly. "I decide what happens with him. If he wants to go to his room, he can go to his room."

Harry doesn't want to go to his room anymore. He wants to hide away in Niall's arms until Gemma cools off and it's safe to come out. He's not afraid of his sister, but he doesn't like when she's angry. It makes his anxiety have an excuse to act up.

Niall mimics her calm attitude. "You do realize that if I wanted to, I could easily get full custody of him, right?" It's a big threat. Harry gets the sense it's not an empty one. "I've thought about it a lot. I come from a somewhat wealthy family, they could help me buy a house. My income is what's keeping the three of us alive. He trusts me more than you."

"You wouldn't." It's supposed to sound strong, but it's laced with fear. She'd be scared to lose him, yet she's always so mean to him. It doesn't make any sense. 

Niall stares at her, and Harry's holding his breath. Gemma's not always the nicest to him and she thinks what Helen did to him is his fault, but Harry can't take losing another person. Could Niall really do that? Legally, maybe. Morally, Harry doesn't know. But Niall looks pretty serious. 

Niall's shoulders sink slightly. "You're right. I won't." Harry closes his eyes.  _ Thank god _ . "But if you tell him one more time -- one more time, I mean it -- that it's his fault, I will start talking to some people about it. See what his options are. And I'm serious about that."

There's a silence, yet Harry has a feeling it's being filled with threatening glares and tense bodies. He won't open his eyes to see for himself, though. It'll be more proof that he's destroying them. 

One hour later, Harry's laying on the couch with Belle at his feet. Niall was actually serious about not letting Harry be in his room by himself. Secretly, he's thankful for it. Although, now there's not much he could use to hurt himself. Niall disappeared into Gemma's and his room with the pills and then came out empty-handed. A part of Harry wanted to cry, but the other part realized that's what he wanted, to be saved from himself. 

Now, Niall is pacing around the house, cleaning and looking at Harry every few minutes as if to see if he's still there. He should be a work, but he called in. Gemma was furious, saying that he can't come home early and call in last minute in the same week, that it was irresponsible. He did anyways, and she left a few minutes after, furious. 

Even though Harry told him not to, Niall turned on the telly for Harry. Before, he had just been staring at a blank screen, thinking. Harry suspects Niall turned it on anyway because Harry was worrying him. It's still early in the morning when all the shitty TV shows are still on, so he's stuck watching  _ The Chase _ . He likes the show, but the questions are too hard and it makes him feel kind of dumb _.  _

"Are you hungry?" Niall asks out of nowhere, about a half hour later. It startles Harry, then Belle, causing Niall to smile softly. "Sorry."

"Not really," Harry replies honestly.

Usually, Niall will let him off and ask him again later. He doesn't this time. "Please eat something, Haz."

It shows how much trust Niall's lost in him. By trying to better himself, Harry has destroyed their mutual trust, and it stings. He snuggles closer to the blanket Niall covered him with, cocooning himself away from the world. "It's still, like, six in the morning," he points out. "I usually eat breakfast around ten." Niall looks conflicted, like he doesn't know what the right thing to do is. It makes Harry's stomach churn. "Stop looking at me like that."

"I'm worried."

"Don't be." Niall rolls his eyes. Harry sighs. "Seriously, Niall. I'll be fine. I've been fine for this long, haven't I?"

"Things are different now."

Frustration blooms in Harry's chest. He doesn't want things to be this way, he wants to go back in time and not go to that stupid therapy appointment. "Not really. If anything, things are getting better. Not worse." It's a lie, but he needs Niall to give him some trust back. 

Niall throws his hands up, the towel he's holding bouncing against his leg as it comes down. "You told me you wanted to hurt yourself barely ninety minutes ago. How is that better?"

It's not. It's really not. But he's almost done with high school, he's got a dog. His life will eventually calm down, won't it? It has to. "I don't actually want to, if that makes you feel any better," he murmurs, embarrassed. "Like, I know I said I did, but if actually wanted to, I would've done it by now."

Niall flinches noticeably. "How's that supposed to make me feel better, exactly?"

"I came to you, didn't I?" Harry says, gentle. "And the only reason I blew up like that was because of what Gemma said. I'm not angry or sad, really. I'm just really scared." Harry shrugs passively, trying to make it seem like it's not as big of a deal as it is. "I'm not sure a person who really was about to kill themselves would be scared of it."

"Do you want me to take you to a hospital?" Niall asks quickly, eyes wide. "I will. If you think you might want, like, in-patient treatment, or -- or if you're scared by what you are thinking and feeling, and that you might do something. They can put you on, like, suicide watch, I guess. If that's what you want."

Harry shakes his head without a second of hesitation. "No fucking way."

"Okay," Niall says calmly, nodding. "But the minute you want me to, that what you're feeling becomes bigger than something you think you or me can handle, tell me okay? No judgement."

"Yeah, sure. Okay." Harry will never, ever do that, but it's nice that Niall cares. Gemma would never offer something like that, but maybe that's because she doesn't realize that it's an option. She's not used to having to think about those things, even after all this time.

The thought of his sister makes him feel terribly guilty. "Are you. . . " He sits up slightly, frowning. "Are you and Gemma going to break up?"

The question seems to catch him off guard. It's obvious he doesn't want to switch gears on their conversation, but it's almost like he can't help but be drawn into the conversation topic. It is his girlfriend, after all. He sets the towel down on the table and gnaws on his bottom lip. After a moment, he seems to come to a conclusion. "I want to," he admits, ashamed.

"Are you serious? I thought -- I thought you said you wouldn't try and get full custody. You can't -- "

"Shh, Harry, stop," Niall hushes gentle. He walks over and sits next to him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion or sorrow, Harry can't tell. "I wouldn't take you away from her. You'd hate me."

He could never hate Niall. If he took him away from Gemma, he'd definitely be angry and upset, but he still couldn't picture himself hating him. It's like he can't. "But you said you want to break up with her, I don't understand."

Niall smiles halfway. "I love your sister. I do. So much."

Harry's sensing a 'but' coming. After a long pause, it does. 

"But I don't like the way she talks to you. I don't like how she still acts like just your sister when she signed up to be more than that." Niall sets his hand on Harry's knee, squeezing it. "You're my top priority. I think about keeping you safe constantly, and she. . . She doesn't. And she hurts you a lot, always puts the blame on you. I can't be with someone who thinks that you've done anything wrong."

"I'm not exactly innocent," Harry mumbles in defense of his sister. Gemma's given up on him, sure, but that doesn't mean he's given up on her. "She's right. By fourteen, I should've realized -- "

"No, _ no, _ stop. See? This is what I meant. She's toxic for you. You need to be surrounded by loving, supportive people. She loves you, but she can't see how badly your m- _ Helen _ manipulated you. She doesn't understand that, and she doesn't try to."

Harry slumps against Niall's shoulder, hairs tickling Niall's neck. His hair is long now, almost reaching his shoulders. He hasn't gotten it cut in a long time. 

His mind wanders to Helen, wonders how she's doing. It's weird to think about her still alive. Obviously, he knows she's not dead, but it feels like she is sometimes. He could never hate her, either. He hopes she's doing decent and hasn't gone off and joined some prison gang or something. He wouldn't know, since Gemma never told him what prison she was sent to. He could never visit her, even if he wanted to. Does he want to? His stomach lurches at the thought. 

"I miss her," Harry confesses sadly, frowning. "I miss her a lot."

It's the truth. He misses the way she loved him and supported him unconditionally. She made him his favorite type of pancakes every morning if he was good, and let him help pick out the groceries. When Louis started to get picked on at school really badly, Helen told Harry that he needed to look after him. Harry tried, he did, but he wasn't used to seeing Louis defenseless like that, so he wasn't sure how to help. Helen helped him. Helen _ always _ helped him. 

"I'm not going to tell you how to feel," Niall says after a moment, "but why?"

"She made me feel good," Harry whispers. "Not just, like, physically. If I was sad or angry, she fixed it. Even if it was by touching me, which I understand that maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, it made everything else go away."

"Harry. I don't. I -- "

He's not going to listen to Niall flail for words; all it does is make them both feel awkward. "I think part of the reason everything is so much harder is because I was kinda fucked up before any of it?" he says. "Like, I didn't cope well with things. Change. After my parents divorced, I was so clingy and scared she would leave me. I remember always being sad. Things looked up after a while, after I realized Dad hadn't really gone anywhere. Louis' parents were split, too, so he helped me. And then after Robin died, I think she just didn't want to see me sad like that again."

"It doesn't matter what her motives were," Niall says, a little too harshly. Always the protector, him. "She hurt you."

Harry closes his burning eyes. He moves so he has his head in Niall's lap and he's curled up impossibly tight, the blanket now covering Harry's body and Niall's legs. "I miss her," he repeats. "I miss Helen and Robin and Des and Louis."

Niall sighs gently. "You've not lost Louis, bud. The minute you call him, things will go back to normal."

"Don't," Harry whispers. "He's gone. I know him better than anyone else on this planet. He holds a mean grudge."

"You were all each other had for years."

Maybe he's got a point. Harry needed Louis, but Louis needed him, too. He always had walls, even with Harry, but Louis let him in from time to time, when he felt like it. When Louis' mum got married the second time and Louis was a wreck, Harry was there to fix it. When Louis' mum got married for the third time and Louis was even more of a wreck, Harry fixed it then, too. The times that Louis felt like he was being swallowed from all of the chaos in the Tomlinson household, thanks to all of the other siblings popping out left and right, Harry was there to make Louis feel special.

And when Louis needed him most, when he was freaking out over the looming threat of college and scholarships and _ I don't wanna lose you when I go away for school, Haz _ , Harry left him. 

"Don't," Harry says, more forceful this time. "I don't deserve to be forgiven. I ditched him. Left him. I didn't even tell him we were moving. And if I called him right now, the first thing he'd ask is why. I can't tell him what she did to me. I can't. He'd flip."

The Styles home was a safe haven for Louis. There, there were no little kids running around and begging for attention, not as many responsibilities. And sometimes, Gemma helped Louis with homework because Harry couldn't, since Louis was two years older. Louis viewed Helen as a second mum, and Harry knows that if he finds out what Helen did, Louis will explode. He'll beat himself up over it, say that he should've known. Harry won't do that to him. 

"Okay," Niall says simply. A few minutes pass of Niall petting Harry's hair and Harry holding back tears because he feels so insanely raw about everything. Abruptly, Niall's body rumbles with a laugh. 

"What?" Harry wonders, the silence broken.

"It's just. All three of us are so sad. It's fuckin' pathetic." Niall quickly goes on to say that no, that's not what he meant; Harry's not pathetic. He's got things to be sad about. But Harry's not thinking about that.

"You're sad?" he asks in a small voice. He doesn't like to think of Niall as sad. Niall's happy and brave and a fucking super hero. Not sad. He immediately wants to fix it.

The hand in Harry's hair stops moving. "'Course I am, Haz. It's not anything you did, though. It's not anything anyone did. I'm just. Sad."

Every fiber of Harry's being is screaming at him to help Niall. Make him happy again. He doesn't know how to, though. He barely knows how to make himself feel better, let alone another person. And then a part of him whispers a remedy, and he tries to push it down, because no.  _ No. _

But it always worked when Helen was sad.

Harry knows deep, deep down it won't help Niall. It'll ruin everything -- logically, he knows this. But his fingers itch at their spot on Niall's jeans and  _ what if  _ keeps playing through his head. Maybe all Niall needs is a helping hand. Helen always pinched his cheeks and told him how good he was at keeping her happy. He could do the same thing for Niall. Niall already does so much for him, if it works ( _ it won't, it won't, don't be stupid _ ), it'd be worth it, wouldn't it?

"I can help," he whispers, scared. Like he did in the beginning with Helen when he was horrified, he distances himself from his mind. Tries not to think about anything. He doesn't want to do this at all, but. . . If it will help Niall not be sad, Harry'll do it. Sex makes boys happy. It's engraved in his head.

Niall's oblivious to the thoughts running in his head. "You do help, H. You're a good kid."

"No," Harry says. The room feels so much smaller, somehow, and it's dimming rapidly and all he can think is  _ I can help. _ "I can -- I can help." 

"What do you mean? How?"

It sounds like permission in Harry's head, Niall's words translating to  _ go ahead _ and Harry clenches his eyes together tight, grinds his teeth together painfully. He just wants to help. So, he does the only thing he knows: he moves his hand to clutch at Niall's thigh for support, and holds his breath. He moves slowly and carefully. He nuzzles his nose into Niall's clothed crotch. 

Niall's breath hitches. At first, Harry thinks he's doing something right and that even if he doesn't want to do it, it'll be worth it. And then everything changes for the second time. 

"What -- what are you doing, Harry?" Niall's voice is breathless and shaking. Helen's voice used to get like that whenever he did something right. Harry sits up, moves to unbutton Niall's jeans. Hands grab his, pushing them away.

"Stop," Harry cries, voice wavering. " _ Stop _ . I’m gonna help."

"Harry, no, stop -- look at me, look at me, Harry, look at me." 

Harry doesn't, can't, just fights at Niall's hands and goes for Niall's zipper this time. Again, his hands are being grabbed at and swatted away. Once Harry frantically realizes Niall's not going to let him unbutton or unzip anything, a sob rips from his throat.  _ I need to help, I need to help, I need to help. _ He sets his head on Niall's shoulder and shoves his hand underneath the tight fabric and underneath the soft cloth underneath.

Now that Harry's got a hand on him, two things happen: Harry sobs grow louder and Niall completely freezes. 

Harry really, really doesn't like this. For one, he's not sure what's right and what's wrong. Helen and Niall are two very different people with two very different body parts; sure, he got a hand job from Louis once, but Louis' clothes stayed on. And secondly, he doesn't want to be doing this. He knows it's fucked up and wrong but if -- _ if it helps Niall _ , his brain supplies. 

Niall comes to his senses; he stops panicking and starts doing. He jolts away from Harry's touch and grabs Harry's wrist, the one disappearing and reappearing at the hem of his jeans. His grip is firm enough to halt Harry's movements, but not hard enough to hurt. He's trying to stop any further damage on Harry; if he physically forces him to stop, it'll make Harry worse, and if he doesn't force him to stop, Harry gets worse, and it's just -- "Harry. You need to stop it, right now."

A cry erupts from Harry's throat that's hard enough to hurt his chest. "Just let me help, I can help, let me help, I can help. . ." His words are on loop, and Niall's left with no choice when Harry begins to fight his grip. 

He grabs Harry's wrist as hard as he can from the awkward angle and pries it from off of his skin. Both Harry's cries and efforts increases; he goes in with the other hand and Niall's quick to intercept it, and now Niall's got both of Harry's forearms in strong holds and he doesn't let go.

"Harry," Niall seethes, his fingers digging into Harry's arm. They'll create marks to match with the ones Harry made himself. Harry thrusts his arms forward in another futile attempt, meanwhile wanting nothing more than to stop and run and hide. He doesn’t know what is wrong with him. He doesn’t feel in control of himself.

"Goddammit, Harry, stop.  _ Look at me. _ "

Harry doesn't want to look at the mess he's made, so he doesn't open his eyes. It'll work for the time being. 

Niall, growing more and more frustrated, shakes Harry's arms in his grip, desperate to understand what the fuck he was thinking. The harsh touch causes Belle to bark in Harry's defense, getting up and moving in the middle of them, not baring her teeth but will be the second Niall does anything else. She sniffs at Niall's hands and when Harry admits a painfully loud cry, she jumps on the couch and sniffs at his face, trying to find the problem so she can fix it.

Belle's protectiveness knocks some sense back into Niall and he lets Harry go, hands shaking with fear and confusion and anger. Harry gasps out a cry and he slides off of the couch, scrambles away from Niall like  _ Niall's _ the one who's done something wrong. Belle follows him to the ground, whining loudly and sniffing Harry for wounds. 

Niall watches as Harry curls in on himself, arms tight around his chest like he can't breathe. He frantically places his head onto his knee caps and wraps his arms around his legs, crying and gasping for air. He's bawling his eyes out still, and Niall has no clue what to do. 

Harry doesn't either. He doesn't know what he did, why he did it, or what he's going to do now that's he done it. Maybe it's because everything's a mess, or maybe it's because Harry's brain is spinning so fast, taking his body along with it, but he hates himself more now than he ever has before, and wishes he could just die already. All he does it cause pain and destruction.

Once Harry's cries completely transition to broken gasps, Niall knows he's got to intervene. Harry's shit at talking himself down from panic attacks and if Niall lets him, he'll stay this way until Harry's body has had enough. He runs his hands through his sweaty hair before getting down on his knees next to Harry and nudging Belle out of the way. He sets his hand on Harry's back like he always does, and Harry immediately loses it.

A strangled, animal-like sound comes from Harry as he scrambles away from Niall as quickly as possible. " _Don't touch_ _me_ ," Harry cries, shielding himself for Niall's hands. Niall, not sure what to do, does exactly the opposite of what Harry asks and rests his hand on Harry's knee, because that's what he's always done, that's how he's always gotten through to him and let him know he was there for him. Harry kicks and flails, throws himself away from Niall violently. He falls backwards and the base of his skull hits the table's edge; Harry shows no sign of feeling it.

"Harry, it's going to be okay." Niall's voice drips with hysteria, his words losing their meaning. "Please, breathe. Breathe, Harry."

Harry's huddled up against the table, clawing at his skin that feels too tight and still, he tries to breathe for Niall. He sucks in a gasp and holds it in longer than his body wants to and huffs it back out, another quickly following its path. He's good at listening to people, always has been, but then again, Niall told him to stop a few minutes ago and Harry didn't listen. Maybe he's not good after all.

He's almost got his breathing back to normal when the door opens. He hears Niall rush to his feet and tells Gemma to be careful, to not touch him, but worried hands grab at his fingers that are leaving red marks in their wake and once again, Harry's gasping for breath.

He flings himself back from the touch and falls into another -- he vaguely recognizes that it's Niall's legs -- and he feels so trapped and so caught and so  _ hurt. _ He tries to get to his feet so he can get the hell away from everybody and opens his eyes, but the whole room spins violently and puke threatens to come up. 

It's not a threat but a warning, because seconds later, Harry is falling forward and catching himself on the coffee table, vomit spewing everywhere. He feels slightly better when he's done, but now his throat feels even more raw and his hands shake harder.

"What the fuck did you do?" Gemma asks, sounding as hysterical as they both feel, though she sounds far away. 

Harry heaves again, his whole body moving with it as he clutches the edges of the table like it's a toilet bowl, although nothing else comes up. Belle is instantly back at his side, whining and barking as if they don't already know something's wrong. 

Niall's voice sounds closer when he speaks, "Don't touch him, Gemma. He's going to panic, just let him come off of it."

Once his body forces itself to breathe normally again, he tries opening his eyes once more. The room spins, though not as dramatically as before, so he takes that as a good sign. Belle's pressed against his side protectively, like she knows Harry doesn't want anyone coming near him ever again.

He barely registers that there's spit and vomit around his mouth as he wipes at it with his hand. He can't care. All he can focus on is the blood rushing through his ears and the pounding in his head, and the fact he just -- did what he did. He can't even think the words, yet he was capable of doing it. 

"Haz?" It's Gemma. She sounds worried. About two hours ago, she was ripping Harry a part with her words. He doesn't understand her.

"Don't," Harry pleads, staring straight forward even though both Gemma and Niall are behind him. "Just don't."

"What happened?"

Harry lets out a wounded noise as it all comes flooding back: him shoving his hand down Niall's pants, him touching Niall, him being shoved off, him fucking everything up. And for whatever reason, he starts crying and again and sobs: "I want Mum, I just want Mum, Gemma, get me Mum, please, please, please, I just want to see her, I need to see her,  _ please _ ."

It's the first time he's called Helen that in months. It makes everyone's heart ache. 

"Harry," Gemma says hesitantly. "I can't do that, I'm sorry, I -- what else can I do for you?"

"I just want Mum," he repeats, anxiety knotting his stomach. "I want -- I can't, oh _ God _ , I'm --" This time, he can successfully pull himself from the floor and rush to the bathroom in time to puke into the toilet. He guesses his body found something else to throw up.

Feet follow him, and when he's finished, he finds Gemma standing by herself at the door. She's alone. Niall didn't follow. Niall is always there to help him, even if it's a half a second after Harry's just said something bloody terrible to him. He's like Louis in that sort of way, but now Niall's not here and neither is Louis and God, Harry just wants to die, he just wants to fucking die. 

"Go away," he whispers, voice hoarse. "You're going to hate me even more now."

"I don't hate you," she says, frowning down at him. 

He doesn't believe it, but even if she is telling the truth, she will. She'll definitely hate him after she finds out what he's done.

Hours later, Harry's burrowed underneath the covers in his room holding Des' teddy bear that he fished out from the box underneath his bed. The bear's fur is still soft, and it tickles at his chin while he holds onto it with all the strength he can muster. It's hard knowing how disappointed his dad would be in him. How disappointed Niall is in him, and how disappointed Gemma will be when she finds out. 

Although he won't admit it, half the reason why Harry shut the door to his room was so Niall would come and tell him to keep it open, or at the very least silently open it himself. He's been doing that since Harry told him he was contemplating suicide. And Harry wouldn't have the energy to get out of bed to close it again, they both know that. But Niall doesn't come. He stays away, no longer caring if Harry hurts himself behind closed doors. 

Still, even with the door traitorously shut, Harry can hear Niall and Gemma talking in the living room. It's infrequent and muffled, and most of the time it's Gemma asking what happened and Niall telling her not now.

Harry still doesn’t feel like himself. He still has no idea why he did what he did earlier. He wishes he had some reason, some way to justify it, but he doesn’t. He just -- he just violated Niall, didn’t he. That’s what that was. And that makes him feel sick, because that’s -- that’s not what he was trying to do at all. He was trying to help. He was trying to fix it like he used to fix things. 

Eventually, Niall decides it's time to tell Gemma, and Harry freezes. "We really need to talk about what happened," Niall says, and Harry can hear the hurt in his voice. He wishes fiercely that he couldn’t hear their voices through the door. 

Anxiety gnaws on every single one of his already frayed nerves, because he knows he can't hide from Gemma's wrath forever. It's going to come down on him, and it's going to come down on him  _ hard,  _ and he'll lay here, waiting for it. He deserves it. He fucking deserves it.

"Yeah, we do. I've been asking you for hours."

There's a pause, and Harry wonders if Gemma's glaring at him or if Niall's crying, and if Belle is sleeping at the bottom of his bed still, or if she was woken by their voices.

"I don't know how to tell you this," Niall starts. "But I really need you to -- you can't be impulsive about this, okay? I can't have you attacking him for this."

After everything Harry's done, Niall is still trying to protect him. Harry doesn't deserve him at all. He doesn't deserve anything good. He's a terrible person, who just did a terrible thing, and he knows it. Before, with Helen, he didn't know he should have been disgusted with himself, but right now, he  _ knows _ , and he is. 

"What did he do?"

Niall tells her. He uses words like  _ grabbed _ and  _ fought _ ,  _ devastated _ and  _ confused _ . Each word that leaves Niall's mouth sends a needle through Harry's heart. The way he describes it is how Harry could describe how he felt the night Helen hurt him, and it makes him nauseous and lightheaded. 

When Niall stops, there's stomping, and then Niall is shouting for her to _ stop _ , and  _ come back,  _ and  _ don't go in there, he's probably sleeping. Gemma, he was so scared earlier, he’s probably so traumatized. Again.  _ And then his door swings open. His heart lurches, and his fingers turn white with how hard he's holding onto the stuffed bear as he curls in tighter on himself. Gemma's there, her face pulled together angrily.

He ruined everything. He's so fucking stupid.

"You've got to be bloody kidding me."

Harry sinks further into his bed, his fingers strangling the plush bear in his hand. His teeth latch on to the almost-hole he's created in the inside of his cheek, and he tries to brace himself for the yelling and screaming. 

It comes.

"I leave for ninety minutes, _ tops _ , and I come back to find out that you've tried to fuck my  _ boyfriend _ ? I can't -- how  _ could  _ you?"

That's not what happened, that's not -- it wasn't like that. Harry had no intention of going that far with Niall, unless Niall wanted to, which -- all he was trying to do was help. He realizes  _ now, _ way too fucking late, that it was stupid, but he just -- he just panicked. 

"All you do is take and take and take, I knew that," Gemma snaps, sounding livid. "But I thought you'd let me have him. I didn't even think --  _ God,  _ I should've known you would've tried something." She stops, clearly still fuming, and just glares at him. If looks could kill, Harry would be dead several times over.

"You're right," she seethes. "I fucking hate you."

It stings like mad, even though he knew it was coming and that it's what he deserves. He deserves this. What he did was fucked up and inexcusable. He probably deserves to get smacked over the head a few times. 

Gemma narrows her eyes then, looking bloodthirsty, and says in a fierce whisper, "You know, maybe you should just fucking kill yourself."

The wind is knocked out of him almost immediately. His head spins and his heart stutters in his chest, and he can't even beg her to take it back, because she's stomping out of his room before he can catch his breath, slamming the door shut on her way out. The room vibrates from the impact of it -- or at least Harry thinks it does -- and he hears himself gasp in an attempt to properly breathe.

He cries again, and shoves his face into the teddy bear. 

He should kill himself. He really, really should. What good has he done in his entire life? Everything he touches ends up burned. Every _ one _ . He’s destructive. He’s dangerous, and not only to himself anymore. He’s a problem. He’s always been a problem. 

Niall would probably be relieved. He would probably be upset with himself for feeling that way, but he would be. He would have to. Harry’s his problem, his burden, and if he was just gone, Niall would probably feel so much better. He would have so much less to stress about. And Gemma -- there’s no question with her. She wants him gone. He knew that even before she said it to him. He’s more than a burden to her; to her, he’s poison. Cancer.

All he wanted to help make Niall happy; all he _ still  _ wants is for Niall and Gemma to be happy. And if doing something as simple as killing himself will be enough for that to happen, then so be it. That can be the one good thing he manages to do for them. 

He waits until the screaming dies down and he's sure they've gone to bed to sneak out to the kitchen. Belle's nails click on the tile as she follows him closely, which makes it hard to be quiet, but he works fast. All he needs to do grab a knife from the drawer, anyway. He can be quick about that. There's a few too many options, though; one for bread, one for meat, others for -- well, he doesn't really know, but there's a lot and he doesn't know which one would be best. He decides to grab the biggest one because  _ why not? _ and tip toes back to his bedroom. 

He sits cross legged on the center of the bed after quietly telling Belle to lay in her dog bed next to his. It might be stupid, but he doesn't want her to see him do it. He reaches over to pat her head and smooth down her ears, lets her lick at his hand for a few moments before he draws back. He's needs to do this. 

He tries not to think about the fact he'll never see Belle or Niall or Gemma ever again. He's not religious, but even if he was, it's not like he'd be going to Heaven after everything he's done, so won’t see them ever again. He'll also never get a chance to fix things with Louis or his mother. He'll never get to run his fingers over Robin or Des' gravestone again. He's giving up everything, but he'll be giving the people he loves most more than he's losing -- happiness, peace of mind, their lives back.

Harry runs his fingers over the handle of the knife and silently regrets grabbing the heaviest one. If he swaps it out, though, he might convince himself not to do it. And he can't have that, can he? He needs to do this. He won't let himself think anything else than that.

He wishes he still had the pills. That’d be the best option, he thinks; swallow down a handful of pills before falling asleep and never waking up again. He wishes he didn’t give away his stash to Niall. He wishes, so desperately, he hadn’t done that. He doesn’t want to mutilate himself. He doesn’t want to carve through his flesh like it’s meat. Pills would be so much easier. 

But maybe he doesn’t deserve easy. 

Suddenly, he realizes that Belle will most definitely alert Niall or Gemma that Harry's hurt when he does it, though. She'll bark and scratch at the door and maybe they'd try to save him (or maybe they wouldn't, he's not so sure anymore). To prevent that from happening, he grabs his phone and the knife, bends down to kiss Belle's soft cheek, and walks as quietly as he can to the bathroom after shutting the door to his room.

The cold air that the bathroom always carries feels good on his face, so he strips off his sweats and Niall's sweatshirt to ease his nerves. Now, clad in his pants, he sits on the toilet seat and sighs before setting down the knife and opening his phone. After all of these years, he still has Louis' phone number. He composes a single text message. 

_ hey lou. i don't know if this is still ur number but i hope it is. or else id be telling this to a stranger. but ur not a stranger, so hopefully you didn't block my number or change yours. i'm sorry for everything. i'm sorry for even texting you now but i can't do this knowing you hate me and not explaining at least a little bit. you never did anything wrong. it was all me. i'm sorry for ignoring you. i regret it so much. every day i wanted to text you and ask you how you were. everyday. everything is my fault and i know that and i just wanted to let you know that i'm gonna fix it now, okay? im gonna fix it. love you. love you always. you were and still are my best friend. pls dont come to my funeral. i know you hate them and you've been to enough. love you. love you. love you always. i'm sorry for everything. i'm so sorry. i'm sorry and i love you. goodbye louis.  _

He presses send with a shaking finger. A sob is clawing at his throat but he chokes it down, determined. He undoes the lock on his phone so if they wanted to for whatever reason -- closure, maybe -- they could access Harry's phone. He sets the phone on the counter and grabs the knife. 

It doesn't even look that sharp, though he knows it is. Without any preamble or hesitation, he sets it onto his skin. He's not sure what to do. Does he go side to side? Up and down? Does it matter? He decides it doesn't matter so long as he goes deep enough, and he just slices from his wrist to his forearm the best he can, but -- 

But  _ holy fucking shit _ , he doesn't expect it to hurt so badly, and it does. He tries to press down as hard as he can but his whole body shakes with the pain, screaming at him to stop. He's barely gone passed the surface, but it stings and it burns and it bleeds, shit.  _ Shit _ . He tries a second time, in the same exact spot, but it hurts still. 

He gets mad then. He's only made a line about three or four inches long and it's not even that deep. He needs to do a lot more than that to cause himself to die. 

(Is he going to die of blood loss? Is that what’s going to happen? He didn’t realize that. He thought -- he doesn’t know what he thought. But blood loss seems agonizing. It seems slow and painful, and fuck, he wishes he had those fucking pills.)

He presses down further, forces himself to, and he doesn't even try to quiet the agonized yelp that tumbles from his lips. It seems to echo around the room and it's like his brain tries to chase it. He's hit with a wave of nausea when he looks down at his arm, and for the first time, really sees the blood. It's gushing out of his arm, out of _ him _ , and it terrifies him. Out of instinct, he drops the knife and uses his hand to stop the bleeding. Part of him is telling him not to, that it defeats the whole point, but he can't not. 

"Shit," he cries, bringing his arm to his naked chest. The rush of blood in his ears and the panic in his chest is so loud, it almost covers the pain. He takes a moment to focus on the strangeness of it in an attempt to sober himself up; he purposely caused himself this pain, but his body is trying to fight it, trying to warn him of it, like he didn't do it himself. It almost perfectly describes the war going on in his mind right now. Half of him is trying to survive, to be better, and the other half of him -- the rotted part -- is the exact opposite. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his phone light up. He sniffles in a futile attempt to stop the snot leaking out of his nose and twists to look at it, and he sees that it's a call. More importantly, it's a call from Louis. And he doesn't want to talk to anyone else in the world.

He lets go of his arm, pulling his hand away bloody, and grabs the phone anyway. Right as he's about to click the green answer button, the screen changes and it reads  _ missed call _ . His body's about to heave out a sob of defeat, although before it can, the screen lights up once more and Louis' calling again.

He answers quickly, afraid of missing it again, and shakily holds the phone against his ear. 

"Shit, hello?" Louis' voice sounds thick with exhaustion, and Harry can't ignore how good it is to hear his voice again after so long. It's deeper now. "Harry? Can you hear me?"

Harry's lip wobbles. "Yes," he whispers, voice breaking.

"Thank God." A sigh of relief hits his ears. "You can't fucking do that to me, H. Jesus. I -- are you okay? Where are you?"

"At home." 

There's a muffled noise, like a door closing or something. Harry tries to cling on the familiarity of Louis being in that house, but then he realizes he can't even be sure if his family lives in the same house anymore. "Good. Are Gemma and Niall there?"

"They're asleep, I think." 

He's not sure. Their shouts quieted down before he left his room, though he doubts either of them are asleep. Harry's not even sure what they were arguing about; Harry's actions weren't able to defend. Maybe Gemma is right, maybe Niall _ is _ too protective of Harry.

There's a long, weighted pause. Harry holds his breath, staring at his bloodied forearm. Since he's stopped putting pressure over it, the blood seems to have doubled, and what used to be his arm is now a slab of meat pumping out blood. 

Like he  _ knows, _ Louis asks: "You're okay, right? You've not done anything to yourself?" Silence on both ends. "Goddammit, Harry. What did you do?" He knows him too well.

"Don't be mad." His voice cracks. He’s so fucking pathetic, fuck. "Please don't be mad at me. I can't -- why's everybody so fucking mad at me all of the time?" It's not like he doesn't deserve it, most of the times, but goddammit, nothing he does is right anymore. None of it. 

"I'm not mad, love. I'm worried, okay? I'm allowed to be fucking concerned. Now, what'd you do?" Harry doesn't respond. "Did you take something? Did you -- did you hurt yourself?" 

"Yes." He never could lie to Louis. Still can't. He hates that part of him so viciously, the part of him that wants to be  _ obedient _ like it’s the only thing important. 

"Yes to which one, Haz?" He sounds upset, God. When's the last time Harry made someone happy? "What did you do?"

"I hurt myself," he confesses, using Louis' words. It makes it less real, less intense. "It fucking hurts, Louis."

"Okay, okay -- shit. Shit. How bad is it? What'd you do?"

"It's not that deep." He lets Louis fill in the rest.

"You cut yourself? Oh my God, Harry. What happened to you?" He's not just asking about the cut, he's asking _ what the fuck could he have gone through to get here? _ And the answer is so, so much. "Just -- never mind. How do you know it's not that deep? Have you done this before?"

"No, I haven't. I guess -- I guess I don't really know, it's just. It just doesn't look that deep, I guess." What does a shallow cut look like? It's obviously deeper than a paper cut, but that's all he has to compare. Judging by the amount of blood, it can't be  _ good.  _ And he's panicking a little more now, which doesn't make any sense because this is what he  _ wanted _ , he  _ wanted  _ to cut deep, deep enough to  _ kill  _ him. 

"You guess?" Louis sounds hysterical. "Can I get my mum? Can I ask her for help? Because I don't. . . I don't know what to do."

Jay's nice and all, but no. He's still not entirely sure he doesn't want to finish the job; he just couldn't pass the opportunity to talk to Louis. "No, don't. Don't, Louis. I’m gonna be fine."

" _ Fine?  _ Harry, you sounded like you weren't just going to stop after one fucking cut. You sounded like you wanted to kill yourself, I can't -- that's not fine, Harry. I -- you need to go get someone to help."

"No. No." He doesn't want any help. The whole point of this was taking the burden off of Niall and Gemma; he can't go and ask them for even more help. All he does is take and take and take, Gemma was right. Maybe she’s been right the entire time and he was too busy making himself out to be the victim to notice. 

"I'm not going to listen to you bleed out while talking on the phone with me. You fucking idiot, go get someone."

"Don't make me," Harry cries. "They're so mad at me."

"They'll still help you," Louis coaxes. "No matter what you did, no matter what happened."

"Gemma told me to," he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut. He needs Louis to understand at least a little bit, to know why this is so difficult for him. "She told me to do it."

"No way," he says in disbelief, and then, "Are you serious? You can come back home. Stay with us until we figure something out. I promise you, there’s a place for you here. I'm going off to college soon, but -- "

"No. No. I need to -- I need to finish this, I need to just do it, I need -- I'm going to -- "

"No, you fucking aren't, Harry. You don't get to do that. You don't get to call me after fucking off for years and then die, that's not -- no." Like he can't help it, Louis snaps, "What the fuck, Haz? You were my only fucking friend, and I get shit went down in your family, but  _ we _ were family."

"I know. I'm so sorry."

"Are you?" It's cruel, but he hasn't been able to get this off his chest for so long and this could be the only opportunity to tell Harry how he feels. 

" _ Yes.  _ Yes, I am. I'm sorry, I swear. It's why I texted you."

"Then don't fucking kill yourself. For me, for us. Whatever it is. Just don't."

Harry thinks it over. Why would Louis care if he did? Harry's done nothing for him in years. All he's done is push him out because he didn't know how to pull him in, and now he's burdening Louis even more with this, shit. He's half convinced he was put on this planet with the only purpose of screwing up people's lives.

"I'm so scared," he settles on, because he is. That much hasn't changed since this morning. "I keep fucking things up."

"That's not true."

Harry scoffs. It comes off more like a whimper. "You don't even know me anymore. You don't know what happened. What's happening. You don't know anything."

"Because you shut me out," Louis says gently, though the words are like a blow to his heart. "C'mon, Harry. Think this through."'

"I have, Louis." He's sounding hysterical again. "It's all I've been able to think about for  _ days _ , and I -- God, why shouldn't I?" He stares at the knife on the ground. He still has time. "I've got nothing, no one. I ruined everything."

"You still have me. And don't say you don't, because you do. I promise."

"If I don't do this," Harry whispers, "I'm still going to want to die. I should just do it now."

"Stop talking like that. I mean it, Harry. If you're even an ounce of you used to be, you need to be here still."

It's not comforting because Harry's not  _ anything _ like who he used to be, not even a shred. He's so far from that person now. The boy Louis knew was sheltered and happy, and now he's all by himself and sad. Polar opposites. Would Louis even recognize him now?

Louis sighs. "Niall and Gemma aren't stuck with you. They _ chose _ you. So whatever you did, they will continue to choose you. I've not seen either of them in years, but when we were younger, they both adored you. How much could have changed?"

"Stop fucking saying that. A lot has changed. You'd be kicking yourself for telling me that if you knew."

"Then tell me."

''I can't."

"Fine. Don't. But you're not going to kill yourself. I'm not going to let you do that."

He starts to cry freely then. He wonders if Gemma and Niall can hear him. Louis can for sure hear him and even though he should probably feel self conscious, he feels a little bit safer. Louis has never hurt him beyond repair; they rarely ever fought, and if they did, it was about stupid things. Everything else was so good. He’s the only part of Harry’s life that was always so, so good. 

"Please stop crying, it's gonna be okay."

"No it's not, Louis, you don't -- how can you say that? If I don't do this right now, I'm not going to get another chance and everything's going to get even worse, and -- "

"Can you listen to me for one second?" Louis asks gently. Harry doesn't say anything, and Louis takes it as an approval to continue. "Gemma and Niall aren't, like, hurting you, are they?"

_ No _ , he wants to say, but. Gemma does sometimes. Not physically, though, and he thinks that's what Louis' getting at. "No."

"Okay, good. That's -- that's good. Is anybody hurting you? Like, are you in danger any of the time?"

"Not anymore," he says without thinking about it. Maybe it's all the blood loss making his brain hazy, or maybe he just lost his will to care anymore, because right now he swears he could just tell Louis everything and he wouldn't care. He wouldn't.

"What does -- Harry, who hurt you?"

Harry shakes his head to himself. "I’m not gonna tell you, so stop asking."

"Fine. Fine. You know what -- ? Just. Forget it then. I'm just saying, things might be shit right now, but they could be a lot worse probably, and they're probably going to get a lot better if you just give them a chance to. You just need to ask for help.”

"I have, Louis. You don't understand."

"Because you won't  _ let me  _ understand!" Louis shouts, finally snapping. "I don't know what to think because I don't _ know _ , Harry. I don't know. We were best fucking friends practically as soon you popped out of your mum and then you were just  _ gone _ . And that fucking hurt, Harry. It still fucking hurts. Did you know that I went over to your house on my birthday? I thought for sure you couldn't turn me down then, even three fucking years later, and then I find out you're extra gone. You've fucking  _ moved _ ."

"I'm sorry -- "

"No you aren't. If you were sorry you would've fucking called me sooner or told me anything. But you didn't. All you did was be gone and now you're," he pauses, taking a deep breath, "and now you're not gone again. When I saw your name on my phone I got so fucking happy, you don't even know. So you don't get to decide to be gone again. It's not an option. Because even when you were gone, you were still at least alive. I could hold onto that. Don't take that away from me, too."

When he's done, they are both silent: Louis, because he just put his heart out into the universe; Harry, because he feels like he's going to pass out any second. He didn't think he cut deep enough to do any real damage, but this is definitely real. His whole head is light with it and he keeps having to adjust his grip on the phone. 

Finally, he decides on a response. "I think I'm dying, Louis."

"Goddammit. No you aren't. I still have Gemma's phone number. I've waited this long, I won't wait any longer. Get up and go to her or I'll make her come to you."

"No, I mean," the room starts to spin, "I really, really think I'm dying."

"All the more reason to get up. Get up, Harry. Get up."

Harry closes his eyes, trying to balance the universe. As soon as he does, though, Louis tells him not to so he reopens them. The room's spinning and it only worsens when he finally gets up. He has to catch himself with his bad arm when he falls, and he hisses out in pain, dropping his phone. He collects himself, picks the phone back up, and holds it against his ear. 

"I gotta go," Harry murmurs, woozy. 

"Finally got up, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Call me again, yeah? Please."

"Yeah. I will."

He hits the end button then and sets his phone on the bathroom counter. He idly side-steps the knife laying useless on the ground and slowly starts to make his way to their bedroom.

When Harry gets a hand around the doorknob, it’s cool. His skin feels like it’s on fire, so he focuses on the coolness for a moment. Just a moment. That’s all he needs. Just one second, and then he pushes the door open. 

Gemma seems to be sleeping on her side of the bed, but Niall's wide awake. He's sat up chewing on his thumb nail, watching the television. Harry can't focus on it long enough to figure out what he's watching. Niall's looking at him, though, and Harry feels liberated by passing off the pain onto somebody else.

He holds out his arm while he uses his other hand to try and stop the bleeding. It's like an offer, or maybe a compromise.  _ I hurt you, and then I hurt myself _ . Is that a fair compromise? He's not sure Niall can see him clearly enough -- he's still covered by the darkness of the living room -- so he stumbles further into the bedroom, still offering out his arm. "Help," he whimpers, now highlighted by the lamp's dull glow. "Please."

"Oh my -- Harry, what, oh shit, what did you do? Oh my. . ." Niall practically lunges out of bed, tackling Harry almost. He pulls Harry out of the room and towards the kitchen. Quickly, he flicks on the light. 

"Why'd you do this?" Niall asks, breathless. He reaches out and takes Harry's arm, moves his fingers out of the way. He brushes his own fingers over it shakily, and Harry winces. It pulls Niall out of whatever trance he's in. "I thought we agreed you'd tell me if it got this bad. I thought -- Jesus Christ. Why, Harry?"

"Gemma told me to." 

Maybe it's unfair to throw his sister under the bus. She did tell him, too, though. And he listened to her. That's on her. He would've been able to hold out a little longer if it wasn't for her demand. He’s not sure how much longer he could’ve, but he’s pretty sure he could have forced himself to stay alive for a least a few more days. Weeks, maybe. 

Like she's summoned by her name, Gemma appears in her pajamas. She looks groggy, like she really was asleep. "What's going on?"

Niall's grip goes impossibly tight on Harry's arm as he shoves it into her view. She gasps and covers her mouth with her hand. "Look what you fucking made him do. Fucking look, Gemma."

"Niall," Harry whispers, trying not to shut his eyes. It's amazing he's been able to stay on his feet this long. Maybe he's stronger than he thinks he is. "I really don't feel good."

"You can't take him to the hospital," Gemma rushes out. She sounds freaked. Harry's sad that he's surprised. "If they find out what he did, they'll try to take him away. I -- "

"Is that what you're fucking worried about?" Niall screams, his grip not loosening. Harry can't tell, but he thinks the tight grip is causing more blood to pump out. "He could  _ die _ , Gemma. He's  _ dying _ . And maybe they should take him away, because it's clear -- " Niall chokes out a sob, his grip loosening slightly. "It's clear that we can't do this."

"Niall," Harry tries again. "I think 'm gonna faint." It's a warning more than a guess, because before the words leave his mouth, he is. He falls into Niall, the spinning becoming too much. 

"Shit." Niall grabs him swiftly, leading him towards the ground. He must agree with what Gemma said because he wraps his hand around the wound again and says, "If I can't stop the bleeding, we're going to the hospital. If you pass out, we're going to the hospital. If you don't stop looking like a fucking ghost within the next hour, we're going to the hospital. Deal?"

"I'm sorry," is all Harry says. "For everything." His voice is slurred and his tongue feels swollen. He's never been drunk before, but he's pretty sure this would be how it would feel.

"Stop talking," Niall says, wiping away his tears quickly. He reaches around them to grab a towel from the counter, not minding that it's probably dirty. He doesn't know how to do this. "Or maybe you should keep talking, I don't know. Jesus Christ, I don't know."

Louis would know what to do, Harry thinks. Jay's a nurse, after all. She always told Harry and Louis little helpful things. "Louis' mum is a." Harry stops, closing his eyes. He's never felt so shitty, and that's saying a lot. "She's a nurse. Call him."

"Are you sure?" Gemma's asking. "You haven't talked to him in years."

Niall clenches his jaw so hard Harry's sure he could hear teeth breaking if he could focus on anything long enough. "Are you kidding me right now? Your brother is dying."

Harry sucks in a shallow breath. "My phone's in the bathroom." 

Gemma goes. It's just Niall and Harry now. 

"How are you feeling, Hazza? Well, shitty. I get that. But how bad? On a scale from one to ten."

Harry talks slowly. "Doesn't really hurt anymore. Can't feel much."

"Maybe that's for the better," Niall says, grimacing as he lifts up the towel. "What'd you use?"

"A knife."

"So it was probably sterile, that's good." It sounds like he’s thinking out loud now.

Gemma comes rushing back, Harry's phone in hand. She shoves the phone into Harry's hands. She must've not checked to see if Harry had a lock on his phone. 

"No lock," Harry murmurs. 

Niall takes the phone, going to his contacts and calling Louis quickly. He puts it on speaker before laying it on the floor so they can all here. 

"Did you get someone?" Louis asks when he answers. "Haz, I swear to God, just go wake them up."

Niall furrows his eyebrows. Harry called him? "He did, Louis. We need to talk to your mum, is she around?"

"Shit, yeah. She's sleeping, hold on."

For the next half hour, Jay carefully and worriedly instructs Niall on what to do. Niall washes his hands, cleans the cut and the area around it, and wraps his arm in a sterile bandage. Harry's now got his arm raised above his head -- something to do with your heart and blood, Harry's pretty sure he blacked out at that point -- and his legs resting on a chair. He's pretty sure Jay's trying to make him look more of a mess than he actually is. 

When it's all finished, though, Harry undeniably feels better. Physically, that is. Now that his head is clear, he can't help but feel like he's made a mistake in not following through with it. Niall, Gemma, Jay, and Louis all sound so scared, he can't believe he's done this. 

"Can someone let Belle out of my room?" Harry asks after Jay hangs up. "She's been in there for too long."

Niall stares at him blankly, probably wishing that Harry finished the job, too. He gets up without saying a word, and a few seconds later, paws scampering across the floor are heard. Belle comes at him full force, licking everywhere her tongue can reach. 

She eventually calms down and there's nothing else that Harry can use as a distraction. They're going to make him talk about this and Harry really, really doesn't want to. He wants to go to sleep, maybe watch some TV. He doesn't want to talk about it.

Gemma's the one who starts the conversation. "I'm so sorry, Haz. I didn't actually mean -- "

Niall cuts her off, fuming. "You told a sixteen year old, suicidal boy to kill himself. What part of it did you not mean, exactly?"

She gets up from where she's sitting on the floor next to Harry. "Niall, for one minute, let him breathe, okay?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're constantly down his throat, protecting him and defending him. Telling him what to do. Let him breathe."

Harry closes his eyes, knowing what wrath that's going to bring down on her. She's talking out of her ass and everyone knows it.

Niall scoffs. "Excuse me for caring about him. He needs the attention, anyways. It makes him feel safe."

“The attention you gave him lead him to believe that it’d be a good idea to shove his hands down your pants,” Gemma argues, furious. And that’s -- that’s not it at all. That’s not what happened. 

“He was sad,” Harry whispers, trying to make her understand. “He was sad, and I was just trying to help. I don’t know why. I don’t -- I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

"Let me guess,” Gemma snaps. “Mum made you do it."

Harry shakes his head angrily before sitting up. Niall rushes down to his knees to steady him while Gemma just stares. "She fucked me up, yeah. I don't know why you can't understand that being forced to fuck your mother would be a bit scaring."

"When are you going to get over it?"

"You just don't get it," Harry says again. He steadies himself on Niall's shoulder and pulls himself to his feet. Niall's hands are instantly on his back, making sure Harry's not hit with a dizzy spell. "If I got raped by some man bigger than me, you wouldn't be telling me to get over it. You think that since it was a woman, our mother, that she was gentle and caring? That it's different? Well it's not, Gemma. I'd rather it have been some random guy."

"She never hurt you."

Harry clenches his fists and immediately unclenches them when the cut on his forearm protests. "I freaked out in the therapy session when she brought up my medical history," Harry says boldly, forcing himself to make Gemma understand. "She mentioned the rectal tearing, and it all really gets blurry from there. You've never once asked me about that."

Both Niall and Gemma are silent. Not even Niall asked him about it. 

"Two weeks before she got arrested, I told Helen about the hand job Louis gave me in grade school. I thought it was funny. She got so mad. You don't -- god, I've never seen her so angry. And she hurt me, Gemma. She hurt me.."

Niall's behind him, pulling him close. Harry doesn't stop talking, like he can't.

"And I know you don’t understand it. And you would, if you just listened to me. She hurt me. She -- she tore a part of me. Muscles don’t just injure on their own."

He's shaking and livid, but he can't stop. He just has to make Gemma understand because he's fucking terrified and he can't keep doing things without his big sister. 

"And that night, after you came home from the fucking movies, I ran to your room. Yeah, you're right, I didn't say anything. Maybe I should have. But I was terrified."

"That was one night, Harry. One night, out of thousands of others, I -- "

"How many times to you relive that day, Gemma?" Harry asks slowly. "Catching her, calling the police, holding me while I cried and I cried. How many times?"

She purses her lips. "Probably every day."

"Exactly. Now imagine that day times seven fucking years. Imagine going through that day when you were seven years old. After you just lost another father." Harry's lip wobbles, and he catches it with teeth. "Des killed himself because of me."

"Not true," Niall says behind him. 

"It is. It really is. Not because of me but because of what I did. So add that guilt on top of everything. And add the guilt of getting Helen arrested, too, because it fucking stings. And the -- the fucking depression and anxiety, and the PTSD and paranoia. The nightmares, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts. I can't control any of that, Gemma. My brain is literally folding in on itself."

"Therapy and medication will take care of that if you let it," Gemma says softly, ike she's breaking something simple down for Harry. 

"I've already gone through the most popular medications, and none of them worked, and therapy's benefits plateaued a while ago. It's not me being pessimistic, it's the truth. The only things that help me not feel like I'm being crushed is Belle and you two. But you hate me and I've fucked things up with Niall, and Belle's not going to last forever."

Niall doesn't deny that things are fucked up between them. It hurts. 

"I don't know what you want me to do, Harry. I don't get -- "

Harry groans, throwing his hands up. "I want you to hold me when I'm sad and at least pretend that you  _ care _ about me. I want you to not tell me to off myself. I want you to try and understand. Niall doesn't get half of it, but he tries so hard. I want you to stop blaming me for something I had no control over." Harry runs a hand through his hair. "I want you to not start shit with me the hour after I tried to kill myself. I want to not have to ask you for things like this."

Gemma's eyes are wet with tears, and Harry finally thinks he's getting somewhere with her. But he's not. "Yeah? What about what I want, Harry? I want to be a kid again. I want my fucking life back."

"I can't believe you," Harry whispers. "Why don't you understand that's all I want for myself?"

Niall squeezes his shoulder then. He must realize that there’s no use for this conversation continuing. "You should get some rest, bud. You've had a long day."

Harry nods blankly, feeling defeated. All he wants is for his big sister to not hate him. Before he goes off to the living room (he already knows Niall won't let him sleep in his own room) he frowns at Gemma. "You know, you could at least pretend that you're not wishing I'd done it."

She's silent. Harry bites down on his lip harshly and goes to the living room. Before he's out of hearing distance, Niall sighs and tells Gemma that he can't do this anymore. "I can't even look at you. I can’t -- I’m done. We’re done."

Harry falls asleep on the couch fairly quickly, although the fear doesn’t leave him. 

The nightmares come in full-fledged tonight. Maybe it's because he's sleeping a place other than his bed, or the fact that he almost died today. Whatever it is, they're here, and he can't wake up from them. He's screaming at himself to wake up -- he can't keep watching it -- but he lays there, asleep and helpless. 

So that morning when he wakes up, he's even more sad. He didn’t know that was possible. It’s a new low. 

He's starving since he hadn't eaten much anything the day before, and he allows himself to be distracted by that. Except, Niall's not cooking breakfast in the kitchen. Instead, he's facing the sink, arms resting on the counter. He's perfectly still. 

"Niall?"

Niall startles, cursing quietly as he turns around. His eyes are bloodshot and wet. "Shit, um -- hey, Haz. I'll have breakfast done soon." It's stilted and guarded. Harry hopes it's because he'd just been caught crying, not because of what Harry did.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it. I'll have cereal." He takes out a bowl and milk. As he's picking out what cereal he wants, Niall stops him. 

"We should, like, make sure you stay as healthy as possible so your immune system is strong and that cut doesn't get infected."

Harry wants to ask who 'we' is. He doesn't. "I'll have Raisin Bran instead of Lucky Charms," Harry says, trying to smile for Niall. "Deal?"

Niall's eyes dart away from Harry. "Yeah, sure. Okay."

The entire morning, it goes like that. Harry desperately trying to make conversation while Niall avoids answering or looking at him. He can't take losing Niall, too. 

"Is this how it's going to be now?" Harry asks, frustrated. They are watching the news together and Niall makes a point of sitting as far away from Harry as possible. "I know what I did was wrong, but it doesn't have to be like this now, does it?."

"I just need some time," Niall says gloomily. "There's been a lot going on lately, and -- "

"Bullshit, Niall." Harry sighs, running his fingers along the bandage on his arm. "It's not about Gemma and it's not about what I did last night, it's about what I did yesterday morning."

"Yeah, okay. Maybe it is."

"Then let's talk about it," Harry pleads, kicking at Niall's thigh. The action makes Niall tense. "We always talk things out."

Niall sits quietly, not responding. He's watching the telly and he looks torn, like he's not sure what Harry wants him to say. What's the right thing to say to a sexually traumatized kid who tried to grab your junk to help you? He thinks about it for a moment before taking a deep breath. "All right. Fine. Let's talk about it."

"You go first."

He'd been expecting it. Harry's not good at communication; he needs to be lead into it. "I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea." Harry instantly tries to argue with that, but Niall stops him from doing so. "Look, I know that we're close and all, and I thought that your touchiness was just natural. It's my fault for not making things clear for you. And maybe you were confused because I was talking about breaking up with Gemma, maybe you were thinking I was leading you on, but I wasn't. You're like my kid. I'd rather die than do anything like that with you."

"I wasn't confused or thinking anything like that. You were sad and I didn't know how to help. You always help me when I'm sad."

"Sure, but I don't stick my hand down your pants."

Embarrassment colors Harry's checks. "Obviously not. And I don't want you to, obviously. I knew deep down it wouldn't help, but I had to do something."

Niall seems to think it over for a second. He doesn't get any less tense. "Gemma said it's because I give you too much attention. That I'm mimicking Helen's parenting skills too much and it confuses you."

"That's not true. It's not -- look, sometimes I like being doted on by you, but not because I want to be. . . be with you, but because it makes me feel wanted. Needed, or something. Helen tricked me into needing her, you just. I don't know. You're good at handling me, and I like handing the reins to someone else for a change. It’s not anything to do with sex or Helen or you being a bad guardian."

"Maybe we need to work on you being less codependent, then. You're sixteen. Maybe it's time you start to make some of your own friends."

"That sounds terrible," Harry rejects, hurt. "I don't go out unless it's for therapy." Niall's silent and it causes the butterflies in Harry's belly to run rampant. "You can't just give up on me like this, Niall. Give me another chance. I screwed up, yes, but that doesn't give you way to pass me off to someone else."

"I'm not giving up on you." He doesn't sound like he means it at all.

"Fuck you," Harry spits, tears brimming his eyelids. "Maybe you should just fucking leave. If you're not with Gemma anymore and you're done with me, just go. I don't need anybody else disappointing me." Niall's not even looking at him. Harry kicks out at him again. " _ Go _ . Me and Gemma will figure something out. I'll get a stupid job and we'll be fine without you. It's obvious you bit off more than you can chew, so just spit it out and leave."

Niall doesn't look up. He doesn't move, doesn't show any sign of even hearing Harry. 

Harry really can't believe this. He isn't stupid, he didn't think Niall would just forget about it, but shit. Out of everything Harry put him through for no reason at all, this is what breaks them. 

"Fine," Harry says, chest heaving. "I'm going out."

He rises to his feet, even though he instantly regrets saying that. He hates going out of the apartment, especially by himself, but he can't be here anymore. He can't watch Niall flail as he tries to fix what he's just done, because he will, Niall always does, and Harry's not going to let him off that easily. 

"Where are you going?" Niall calls as Harry goes into his room. He shoves on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, not caring that it's a little too small. Nothing fits him right. Niall and Gemma always buy him the wrong size clothes on accident. The jacket he pulls on fits nicely, at least. 

"Out," Harry offers, storming past Niall. He grabs the leash off of the floor where Niall left last time he took Belle for a walk. She comes bolting, practically smiling. He quickly attaches the leash to her collar and stands back up.

"You can't just leave and not tell me where you're going."

Harry wants to spit so many mean things, but he doesn't. He stops, glares at Niall, and huffs. "I'm going to go find a job."

Niall stands up, mimicking Harry's huff. "I'm not asking you to do that."

He makes sure Belle's collar is tight enough so she can't escape it, turns back away, and goes to the door. "I know you aren't," he says, grabbing the door knob, "but you are asking me to back off, so. Bye."

He hears something that Niall calls after him, though he can't make out the words. 

A while ago, Nancy told Harry that his impulse control was getting better. Now, he’s wandering around London nervously, gripping Belle’s leash tightly, because he got in an argument with Niall and panicked. So maybe she was wrong. Maybe should would take it back if she could see him now. He regrets leaving the apartment, but he’s already been walking around aimlessly for ten minutes and he hasn’t gotten a call from Niall begging him to come back home, so he doesn’t turn back around. He’s got to prove to Niall that he’s not irreversibly fucked in the head. 

The way the jacket hugs against the thick bandage on his arm proves that maybe he is, but he tries to ignore that. He wants to completely ignore last night like it never happened. He doesn’t even want to think about it, because when he thinks about it, he feels relieved he didn’t actually do it, and that’s terrifying because what if he had?

So he doesn’t think about it. That’s part of the reason why he doesn’t respond to Louis’ worried texts that have been coming in all morning. He’s been reading them, though, and apparently Gemma has told Louis that Harry is alright and not to worry, so Harry’s not going to bother responding to him. Nothing he can say now can make up for two years of ignoring him. 

He walks further up the road and starts to pay more attention to the shops he’s walking by. They can’t afford anything in any of them, probably, but they’re interesting to look at. There’s a pink bakery he pauses to look inside. It’s the type of place his mum would have taken him to. And the comic book shop a few doors down, his mates from school would’ve really enjoyed. 

It’s all too much. After about a half hour of walking, he’s tired and needs a break, so he enters a coffee shop that doesn’t look terribly busy and has a sign that welcomes dogs. He cringes as the bell at the top of the door announces his entrance, so he sits quickly to try and avoid an interaction with someone, but he’s the only one here. 

A lady maybe sixty years old comes out of the back with a warm, tired smile. She asks Harry if he needs a minute to look at the menu, and he quietly tells her yes. He doesn’t have any money on him so he feels bad about implying that he’s going to buy something, especially when it looks like she could use a customer. 

She retreats to the back again, and Harry looks around the shop. It’s small and cozy, and there’s a sign on the front of the counter that reads ‘NOW HIRING’. It feels stupidly close to fate, even though Harry knows it’s just him frantically trying to grasp onto something new. He’s burned everything else in his life, and he needs something new to try and hold onto. 

When the woman returns to the counter a few minutes later, Harry rises to his feet, anxiety curling in his stomach. He hates talking to new people, but he forces himself to walk up to the counter and ask her about the sign. 

“How old are you?” she asks, and Harry panics. 

“Eighteen,” he lies. 

She nods. “Okay. I’ll grab you an application that you can fill out, but you practically already have the job. I just need someone to clean up the shop for me. I’m getting too old to do it every day.”

Harry nods. “Okay. I can, um. I can do that.”

“My name’s Linda,” she says, giving him the same warm, tired smile she did earlier. 

Harry tries to give her a smile back, but it feels flimsy on his face. “Harry,” he tells her. She nods once before telling him she’ll be back in a minute with an application. 

He does get the job that night. It doesn't pay much and the shop is close to shutting down, judging by the lack of customers and smell of dust. But it's a small and cozy, and the customers that do come are all relatively nice and patient. They seem like regulars, so they don’t get too annoyed when Harry messes something up or gets flustered easily. 

The job started off as a kind of revenge against Niall and a way to help pay the bills, but it turns into something greater. Working makes him feel helpful and like he's worth something. Since he's seeing more than the same two people every day, it creates a theory in his head that if he did try to hurt himself again, then more people would be hurt by it. Linda, the nice man that told him to keep the change, Linda’s son Jack who stops by every Tuesday to spend time with his mother. 

It gives him more reasons to live, and he thrives off of it. He hasn't learned to stop letting himself enjoy things because they end up crashing down. Maybe he never will.

**。。。**

"Harry, I don’t like you working this much. You’re still a minor," Gemma says, setting down a plate of dinner in front of him. Mashed potatoes and gravy with a side of peas for the third night this week. Niall is usually the one to cook dinner, but he’s been picking up night shifts lately, and they all try to pretend like it’s not to avoid Harry.

Harry shrugs as he stabs a pea with his fork. "It's not like I actually do much," he argues. "I mostly sweep and do the dishes. I get paid for doing basically nothing."

"How much do you make again?"

"Minimum wage, but it helps pay the bills." 

The bills aren't a problem anymore, thanks to all the extra hours Niall is putting in now. Gemma and Niall don't even see each other that much anymore, since they’re purposely working opposite shifts. They haven't spoken a word about anything other than Harry, money, and the dog since Niall broke it off. Neither of them mention it. 

"Fair enough,” Gemma mumbles, sitting down across from Harry at the table. She’s given up on arguing with him all the time now.

Harry’s washing the counters before closing when Linda’s son walks in. It’s a Friday, so Harry wasn’t expecting it. He tries to remember if Linda told him that Jack would be stopping by, but he can’t think of it. 

Jack comes over to him, a wide smile on his face. He’s nice enough; Harry doesn’t hate it when he comes in anymore. He used to, because Jack would always talk to him and ask him all these questions, but Harry’s gotten used to it by now. Harry doesn’t feel completely uncomfortable talking to him anymore. 

“Your mom’s in her office,” Harry tells him, glancing up from the counter. Linda is counting today’s income like she always does before closing. Sometimes, she’ll tuck a little extra into Harry’s pockets on the way out, and Harry makes sure to thank her profusely. “Do you want me to go get her? Let her know you’re here?”

Jack shakes his head and comes over to the counter Harry’s washing. He leans towards him, too close for comfort, and immediately, Harry’s gut tells him that he doesn’t like this. He leans back, furrowing his eyebrows, and Jack follows. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack tells him. “I came to see you, actually.”

Harry’s heart starts to race. He’s not comfortable right now, at all, but he’s not sure what he can do about it. Jack is Linda’s son, and he’s not done anything wrong. Harry’s just being overdramatic. 

He takes a deep breath and gives him a stiff smile. “Oh,” he mumbles, bringing the towel back down to the counter. He starts wiping it down again, and Jack grabs his wrist. It’s gentle, but it’s still an unwelcome touch, and Harry freezes. 

“My mom said you were eighteen,” Jack says, his smile turning a little darker. “Is that true?”

“I’m sixteen,” Harry admits immediately, thinking it’ll save him. It doesn’t. All it does is make Jack’s eyes light up. 

“I won’t tell, don’t worry,” he says, his fingers rubbing over the inside of Harry’s wrist. “But lying to my mom isn’t easy. I mean, I’d hate for her to find out that she’s hired a minor without her knowledge. I think she really likes you, Harry. She says you’re a nice boy.” He leans in closer. Harry feels tears sting his eyes. “I came by to see just how nice of a boy you are.”

“What do you want?” Harry asks weakly. He doesn’t want to lose this job. 

“Just a little fun, is all.” 

He comes around to the other side of the counter where Harry is, and he puts his hand over Harry’s. When Harry doesn’t immediately push him away -- he would, if he wasn’t completely frozen -- he comes up behind him, pressing his body up against Harry’s. 

“Gonna help you wash up,” he whispers, and Harry’s stomach twists as he feels Jack’s hot breath fan his jaw. 

Jack starts to move the towel back and forth against the counter, and Harry kind of just goes with it. He tries to tell himself that everything’s fine, that nothing’s happened yet, even as he feels Jack harden against him. 

“Oh, look at that,” Jack says, sounding amused. “How’d this happen, hmm?” 

Harry turns his head just enough to see Jack looking down at his crotch, the press of his erection evident through his jeans, and his smirk. 

“What are we going to do about this?” Jack asks, and Harry just stands there, terrified. Jack’s hand tightens against his. “Come on, don’t be shy. You’re the one that caused it. The least you could do is take care of it.”

Harry feels hot all over. He wants to run, or -- or scream, he doesn’t know. “What -- what do you mean?” he asks shakily, hoping that somehow, someway, he’s gotten this all wrong. That Jack isn’t implying that if Harry doesn’t touch him, then he’ll lose his job.

Jack takes his hand and slowly brings it down to his clothed groin. As soon as Jack squeezes himself on top of Harry’s hand, Harry make a tiny, scared noise and tries pulling away, but Jack shushes him. 

“Don’t be like that,” he says. “My mom always tells me how good you are. How nice of a young man you are. Show me.”

That's what breaks him. That's what always broke him, the desire he has to be good for everybody, like it's his job to please and help everybody. 

Jack takes him home that night, and they fuck with Harry's body being jolted by every harsh thrust. He comes into him, gets Harry off, and just like Helen always did, kisses his forehead and tells him how good he was. 

There's not enough showers Harry can take to feel clean again. After the sixth week of going over to Jack's after his shifts, though, he begins not to care. Doesn't have the strength to.

He lets himself be grabbed and touched, manhandled and fucked. He lets Jack tie him up and strip him down, lets him spank him raw and tell him to go home right after, with nothing to help soothe the ache. He lets himself be used, humiliated, destroyed. 

To get through it, he closes his eyes, does as he's told, and tells himself that it's almost over. That’s the only thing he can do, really. 

It’s like Jack is never kind to him. He is. He always gives Harry a ride home so he doesn’t have to walk, and he tells Linda that Harry’s a nice young man, which always leads to Harry getting bigger paychecks than he is meant to. Harry’s pretty sure Linda doesn’t know what’s going on between them. Jack always tells him not to tell her. Harry will always, always be someone’s dirty little secret. 

Niall notices around the seventh week that something's wrong. He's half asleep on the couch -- where he now sleeps at night -- watching  _ Game of Thrones  _ while Harry is cleaning his crap out from the cabinet under the telly. Gemma had opened it and all of his stuff he didn't know where to put came pouring out, and she told him that if he doesn't have it cleaned up by the time she gets home from work tonight, then she's throwing it all away. 

It's mostly school things, from when he actually went to public schools. Folders, binders, pencils, paper -- where else was he supposed to put it? He throws most of it away, except for the assignments that have doodles on them from his old friend Zayn. 

Harry stretches across the living room floor to reach the plastic bag he's using as a trash can, and -- 

"What the fuck is all over your back?"

Harry freezes before quickly sitting back up, tugging down his shirt. He ignores Niall, can't come up with a lie fast enough, but Niall's relentless. He comes towards him and without warning, he's grabbing Harry's shirt and pulling it up. 

Harry squeaks, scrambling to his feet and out of Niall's grip. "Stop, stop," he demands frantically, but judging by the look on Niall's face, it's too late. He's already seen all the scratches and the hickeys and the teeth marks. He’s asked Jack not to leave too many marks, but he doesn’t ever listen.

"Is someone hurting you?" Niall asks softly, though his brow is furrowed angrily. 

"Why do you care?" Harry snaps, getting back to the floor to resume what he was doing. There's no point in trying to deny it when Niall clearly saw it with own eyes. 

"Harry, this is not a joke. If somebody is hurting you, I need to know."

Harry already feels his eyes starting to burn. He's such a crybaby. He doesn't really know if what Jack does to him can consider hurting him. He might not have said yes, but he didn't say no, so. "Nobody's hurting me. Calm down."

"Then why does your back look like you've been mauled by a bear?"

"Stop, God. So fucking dramatic." Harry shoves some notebooks into the plastic bag roughly. "I don't ask about your sex life, so don't ask about mine."

There's a stilted silence, and Harry’s glad he doesn’t have to see Niall’s face right now. He’s probably disgusted. Harry is, anyway. 

"Harry," Niall finally says, sounding shocked. "Should you -- shit, I don't think you should be having sex so soon. Especially not so rough, Jesus."

Harry shrugs, trying not to show how much he agrees. "I like what I like. What about it?'

"It's only been two years since Helen got arrested, Harry."

He licks his lips, muscles tensing at the name. "It'll be three soon enough. And I'm turning seventeen soon, it's really not a big deal. Every seventeen year old has sex."

"You aren't like every other seventeen year old, Harry." It's soft and small, a confession that he knows Harry won't want to hear. 

He's right; he doesn't. He wants so badly to be normal. He has had to carry so much baggage for the majority of his life, and he’s waiting to be able to just drop it off somewhere and never have to look back at it. He gets the feeling that that’s never going to be more than a dream. 

"Yes I am,” Harry argues sadly. “Don't -- I'm trying to be. Don't take that away from me."

"How old is this person? He better not be over eighteen."

Forty three. "He's almost eighteen. His birthday is in October."

"Where'd you meet him? What's his name?"

"Work. Jack."

"Do you -- are you guys dating? Or just fucking like animals?"

"Don't see how that concerns you."

Niall seems to give up then; he always back down easy lately. Harry even pushes hard sometimes, begging Niall to bite back and not give in so easily. It never works anymore. He guesses he brought this onto himself. Nothing has been the same since Harry did what he did to him. 

Niall sits back down on the couch, sighing loudly. 

Harry pauses, knowing there's bound to be something else said, even if it's not prying. 

He's right. "I don't want you working on the anniversary of that day," Niall whispers, careful. "I already talked to Gemma. We’re both taking off work to be with you."

"No one's died," he snaps, defensive. "It's just another day that another shitty thing happened on, it doesn't need to be celebrated. Besides, I'm already scheduled for that day." He's not; it's a month away. 

"Tough shit. Call in sick, I don't care. You aren't going out."

"Thought you said you wanted less of me around here. I'm finally doing that."

And he’s doing that thing he used to do all the time; scrabble in panic, grab at a loose string in front of him, lash out because he’s hurt. It’s exhausting. He’s never going to get better. 

Gemma brought up him getting back into therapy a few days ago. She didn’t ask him to, he demanded it, so he didn’t even consider it. It’s not how he operates with her. If she wants him to do anything, it seems like he just goes in the opposite direction. He doesn’t mean to be that way all the time, but he can’t seem to help it with her. 

Besides, he doesn’t want to go back to therapy. He’s already made the decision that if he did go back to therapy, he’d go back to Nancy, and that’s -- he doesn’t want to face her post-suicide attempt. He doesn’t want her to think he’s a failure. He doesn’t want someone else disappointed in him. And God, the talking they’ll have to do. She’ll want to talk extensively about his suicde attempt, and that’s just. . . no. Nobody likes talking about it, so they don’t. And he likes it that way, even though he knows deep down, that it’s not responsible of Niall or Gemma. 

"I didn't fucking say that, stop it,” Niall snaps. “Just stop. I'm not going to spend the entire night worrying that you aren't coming home. That you've flung yourself off of some bridge, or jumped in front of a car, or tied a cement block to your feet and went swimming. I worry about that enough, I don't need want to have to worry about it on that day. I'll have a bloody aneurysm."

Harry closes his eyes, setting his head into his hands. He's never realized how many ways you can actually kill yourself. It's clear Niall has given it some thought. "That's a bit insensitive to say to me, isn't it? Seven weeks ago I almost killed myself. I don't need to be reminded of it. Please don't talk about it."

"You never want to talk about anything."

Harry sighs, opening his eyes. He stands up, scooping up the rest of the crap in his arms. He'll sort through the rest in his room. "You told Gemma she was toxic for me and now you are acting just like her. Maybe you should worry a little harder tonight when I'm at work." He sees Niall's eyes fly open in shock, but he ignores it. Niall deserves it for being such a prick. 

Niall sees that Harry's not acting right, and he wrote it off within minutes. He lets Harry go to his room and shut the door without a word. He's officially given up on him.

With that in mind, Harry is able to ignore the pain a little more than usual that night at Jack's. Jack has his arms tied against the headboard. Harry's given up on telling him that it's too tight by now; it makes his arms all tingly and sore, but he ignores it. 

"So pretty, baby," Jack muses. He digs his nails down Harry's chest, creating deep red lines down his front. "Wanna try something new tonight."

Harry closes his eyes, Jack’s desire sounding like a warning. Even with the warning, he can't be prepared with what happens minutes later, with the way that Jack forces him to come over and over and over again. 

He'd be lying if he said it didn't feel good. That's the problem, really, always has been; he can't control what his body feels, can't control the way he gets hard, but he also can't control the way his brain shouts at him that this is wrong, that he needs to leave right now. 

The war between his mind and his body comes to a ceasefire when they are both on the same page:  _ this needs to stop right now. _ They're on that page when he’s come for the third time and Jack keeps touching him. It didn’t feel good at all after the second orgasm, so now the pain is nauseating, and he doesn’t know what he can say or do to make it stop. At this point, he doesn’t even feel capable of words. 

He tries his best anyway. “I can’t again,” Harry chokes out, trying to curl in on himself to hide his crotch. He can’t -- his hands and feet are tied to the bedpost -- and Jack keeps touching him anyway. Harry lets out a loud cry. “Jack, please, I don’t -- I’m not messing around, please stop, please stop.”

He begs, and he gasps, and he pleas, and Jack doesn’t leave him alone until he comes one more time. Harry’s pretty sure he blacks out, because when he finally comes back into himself, the blindfold and rope is gone, and Jack is shushing him quietly. Harry’s trembling. Every part of him is shaking. His body has never been pushed that far before, and during over half of it, he was scared. 

Jack places a comforting hand on Harry’s hip, and Harry flinches away. Everything feels like too much right now. He kind of feels like he could throw up. 

“Can you hear me?”

Harry’s brain whirls as it tries to remember how to talk. Even his teeth are chattering, so it doesn’t make it any easier. “Take me home. Please. God, please.”

“When you calm down, I will. Don’t want anybody getting the wrong idea.”

Harry doesn’t know what the right idea is supposed to be, but he also can’t think very hard, so he just lays and shakes and cries and tries not to vomit. 

He does that right before Jack is about to take him home, and Jack sighs, disappointed. Harry’s just gone and vomited on his bed, and a little on himself, too, because he still feels too weak to move much. He cries and curls in on himself, hiding from Jack’s disappointed look. 

“Alright, let’s get you in the shower,” Jack says. 

Harry shakes his head wildly. “I don’t want you to touch me anymore, please don’t touch me again.”

“I didn’t say I was going to touch you again, did I?” Jack asks softly. He can be gentle with Harry sometimes. He’s not a bad person, not really. “Just let me help you get in the shower, alright?”

And Harry does, because he wants to rub his skin raw, until it cracks and bleeds, and everything from tonight is washed away entirely. He lays down in the bath with Jack, still trembling from the aftershocks of coming so many times -- he didn’t even know his body was  _ capable _ of that -- and Jack washes him off gently. 

Harry goes in and out of reality, but once Jack’s finished washing him everywhere, he registers that he needs to be coherent enough to get himself out of the bath and dressed again. He thinks he’s done, and that he can go home and sleep forever. 

But Jack’s hand creeps over Harry’s thigh, and slowly, like he’s trying to keep it a secret from Harry, Jack’s hand wraps around his overly sensitive dick, and immediately, Harry thrashes away from him. 

“No, no, Jack, I told you that I couldn’t again,” Harry says, and now that his hands are free, he grabs Jack’s wrist and tries to pry it away from him, but Jack won’t let go and Harry’s much too weak to put up much of a fight. 

It’s more violent than it’s ever gotten between them. Every time they do something like this, something that might push Harry over the edge, Harry’s been tied up. And he’s not tied anymore, so he fights with everything he has in him, and it’s not a lot, but he tries anyway. 

He screams -- actually screams, in agonizing pain -- when he comes again, the fifth time that night. He's not even quite sure you could call it an orgasm at this point it's just. . . He for sure blacks out this time, and when he comes to again, he’s not breathing properly and Jack’s petting his hair and shushing him like he’s a child whining about nothing.

Jack starts to get legitimately worried about ten minutes later, when Harry won’t stop shaking and he’s still not breathing right. They’re both naked on Jack’s couch -- Harry doesn’t even remember having been moved -- and Harry’s laying there, terrified, and breathing like his lungs are the size of an infant’s.

Jack says maybe getting Harry into some warm clothes might do him good. As soon as he even goes near Harry’s groin area again to slide on his underwear over his bum, Harry starts screaming. It’s his last defense; he doesn’t realize that Jack’s not planning on touching him again.

Jack shuts him up by slapping him across the face, hard, and Harry doesn’t scream this time when Jack dresses him. He just lays there, allowing Jack to manipulate Harry’s body in anyway he wants to. 

Jack gets him a glass of water and demands that Harry drink it. He looks annoyed, but there’s also a little bit of concern mixed in with it as helps Harry up into a sitting position because Harry can’t even lift his head up by himself right now. 

Harry takes the glass from Jack, and they both immediately recognize that Harry’s hands are shaking too badly to do anything useful with it, so Jack takes it back and lowers the glass to Harry’s lips, helping him drink. Harry does, and while he’s doing so, Jack pets at his hair and tells him that Harry’s so good, and that he’s so proud. 

Harry doesn’t stop shaking terribly for another hour or so. By then, he feels a bit more settled, and Jack finally feels comfortable taking him home. 

Harry’s legs are still jelly -- hell, his whole body is startling weak -- when he opens the door to his apartment. He doesn’t realize how bad it was until he falls in front of the door and starts choking on tears. 

He cries and cries, slumped against the door, defeated. He lays with his limbs a puddle around him, head thrown against the door in agony.  _ I can't do this anymore, I can't do this anymore, I can't do this anymore _ is chanting on repeat in his head, has been since Niall brought it up earlier. 

Belle doesn't come running to his aid, meaning she's already asleep, probably in the room with Gemma. That's where she sleeps now, because Harry doesn't get home until around eleven. He's lost even her. He's lost everything. 

Niall comes wandering into the kitchen a few seconds later, concern drawing him in. He flicks on a light and rubs at his eyes before looking down at Harry. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Harry hiccups, throwing his hands up and letting them fall back against the ground. "Nothing, I'm fine. Just go back to bed."

Niall frowns, leaning against the wall. He's not coming towards Harry, not when he's this upset. Harry’s dangerous when he’s not thinking clearly; Niall learned that the last time. "I'm not going to just go back to bed."

"Niall," he spits, opening his eyes. He doesn't look at him, only stares at the light. "I'm not going to do anything, I promise. I'm just going to sit here and cry, so just go." Niall continues to stare at him, unsure. "Go. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before."

It shouldn't comfort Niall in the slightest, especially because he knows in intimate detail what Harry's dealt with. It does, though, and then Niall's nodding. "If you need me, wake me up."

It feels like one thousand knives are going through his chest at once when Niall retreats back into the darkness. So he cries about that, too, collapsed against the doorway. He cries and cries, doesn't think he can stop. He finally gets his arse off the floor after twenty minutes and goes to the couch where Niall's already sleeping again. 

"Ni, get up, please," he cries, shoving at Niall's side. Niall grumbles and stirs, but doesn't wake. Harry tries again. (Don't tell him he doesn't try. He constantly goes to them for help.) "Niall, please. I don't wanna be alone right now."

Niall opens his eyes then, blinking slowly. "What's wrong?" he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

"Can I lay here with you?" Harry asks, sniffling. He wraps his arms around himself to prepare for the blow of rejection. "I won't do anything, I just -- please. Please, please let me lay with you.”

"Haz," Niall says, sitting up on his elbows. "I'm not gonna let it go this time. Something's going on with you, I can tell, and not just because you're crying right now."

Harry starts to cry harder so he hides his face in the crook of his elbow, desperate to get himself to stop. He allowed Jack to take him home the first night, and he didn’t protest too loudly when Jack put the ropes around his wrist tonight. He could’ve tried harder to stop him. 

Niall pulls him down into the couch, ignoring the way Harry so willingly goes down like a rag doll. He’s too weak to do anything else. He lays his head in Niall’s lap and grabs his pillow before squeezing it to his chest. He’s still sobbing, and Niall starts rubbing at his back gently.

“What’s wrong, bud?” 

"I'm sorry," is all Harry says, and it's enough for Niall but he keeps going. "It's my fault this time, I swear, I know that. It just hurt so bad," he stops to let a sharp cry out, "and. God, he's not even done anything wrong, I'm just a fucking baby, shit."

He tries to pull away from Niall, but Niall's not letting. "If it hurt, he did something wrong, Harry." It makes Harry melt back into him. "Was it the Jack bloke you were talking about earlier?"

Harry nods against Niall's lap. 

"Did you tell him no?"

Harry's chest heaves, a large sob threatening to boil over. "Told him to stop, that," the sobs comes; he recovers, "that I couldn’t anymore."

It shocks both of them, how honest Harry is with Niall. He may pull away and lie on occasion, but most of the time, the times when it counts, he's so heartrendingly honest with him. Like he really doesn't know what to do with himself sometimes, so he gives his insecurities to Niall and begs him to dissect them. 

Niall squeezes him extra tight. "Do you think you need to go to the hospital?"

"No."

"How are you sure?"

“It wasn’t like that,” Harry says, even though he’s not sure. You can’t get hurt from orgasming too much, can you? That’d be humiliating, explaining that to a doctor.

Niall's shoulders start to heave with tears of his own. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says immediately. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault, not either of the times."

"I knew he was trouble," Harry admits, the last of his tears hiding away in the presence of Niall's. He’s got to stop being so weak. He has to stop being such a burden. Niall and Gemma deserve so much more than him. So much. 

Still, he needs a little bit of help with this. He needs to be honest. "He's not seventeen, Niall."

"How old is he then?" He already sounds livid. 

Harry closes his eyes. "Forty three."

"And he knew you are sixteen?"

Harry nods once.

It seems to be enough talk for Niall because suddenly Niall's lifting him off the couch. He quickly clings to Niall, not wanting to be dropped, and Niall starts taking him somewhere. He panics slightly, but then he sees they’re just going to Gemma's room and it lessens slightly. 

Gemma and Belle both wake up when Niall comes through the door with Harry in his arms, like they have some sort of sixth Harry sense. Gemma goes to ask what happened, but Niall shakes his head. "We'll talk later. He needs us right now."

Harry falls asleep with Gemma cuddled up to his back, her head resting against the back of his, with Niall sitting up so Harry could bury his head into his side easier and Belle in-between his legs. For the first real time, they feel like a family. Not a group of people meshed together, a family. 

Harry wishes he could feel a little happier about it. 

He wakes up with a pounding headache and his muscles aching. He groans as the pain washes over him instantly, not for one moment letting him pretend last night didn't happen. After he gets used to the pounding in his head, he opens his eyes and notices that he's alone in bed. He groans again, sitting up carefully and glancing around. He's eyes catch a clock; it's only four in the morning. 

He pulls himself out of the bed, his knees buckling once he puts his weight onto them. He catches and steadies himself, his ankles and wrists hurting from the rope. He's cold, so he grabs one of Gemma's sweaters off of the floor and pulls it over his head, ignoring his body's protests. 

He finds them in the living room. He hears them before he sees them; Niall's hushing and Gemma's sobs. Niall has her pulled onto his lap and he’s petting her hair as she cries. They must’ve had some sort of truce. Either that, or Niall’s just being the nice guy like always. For everyone’s sake, he hopes that they’ll get back together soon. Both Niall and Gemma have been miserable since they’ve broken up, and everything at home seems so suffocating whenever they’re all home at the same time now.

Harry tries to make his escape quietly, doesn't want to bother them, but Belle gives away his invisibility. 

Gemma whips her head around to look at him, eyes wide with fear and Harry shushes Belle, looking at Gemma sadly. "I'm gonna go back to sleep in my room," Harry says, petting Belle with his fingertips. "Sorry."

She shakes her head before setting it back down on Niall's shoulder. "Don't be. For anything."

That’s. . . new. And confusing. There’s no way she can mean anything as in literally anything. She’s not once forgiven him for getting their mum arrested, and he’s not sure she would start now. But even if she has randomly forgiven him, he’s not sure he accepts her apology. She’s said horrible things to him before, and some of it he’ll never forget. 

To make sure his sister’s okay, he catches Niall's sad eyes with his. Niall nods once, and Harry feels guilty about it, but he decides he can go to sleep. (How many times has Gemma gone to bed knowing Harry was sad? So many. He shouldn’t feel guilty, because she didn’t.) Before he goes, he bends down in front of the couch and touches Gemma's back with his palm, resting his head on Niall's thigh. "Don't be sad, alright?" he whispers. "At least, don't be sad for me."

Before she can respond, he kisses her forehead and goes off to his bedroom, allowing Belle to follow. He would rather shower, scrub off all the disappointment and hurt that's clinging to his skin, but he doesn't think he can stand for that long right now. Jack had washed him off quickly last night, although he still feels filifty. First, though, Harry needs to sleep, and then he can consider taking a shower. 

Trying to persuade sleep to come take him is difficult. He can't help but pay too much attention to the aching in his muscles. He's done this to himself. He didn't have to go home with Jack, he could've hid in the back in Linda’s office until he left. He's too good at self-sabotaging.

Sleep finally picks him up after about twenty minutes of begging it to, and he's too exhausted to remember any bad dreams when he wakes eight hours later. Harry's sure that they were there, they always are, and he's grateful he can't remember them.

As his senses come back to him, he realizes what woke him: the banging about going on outside his room. It's probably Niall attempting to cook something in the kitchen, and his stomach feels empty and hungry, but he can't will himself to get out of bed just yet.

He doesn't have to, he soon learns, because there's a knock at the door. He doesn't answer, and the intruder comes in anyways. Gemma and Niall are both standing at the doorway, sadness engraved in their features. Belle gets up at the sight of the food in Gemma's hands, and Harry's heart lurches when she pulls away from him.

He feels terribly anxious right now. He’s not sure why, but he is. Everything feels like a bit too much to handle. 

"Hey, bud," Niall greets quietly, walking into the room. He comes and sits down on Harry's bed, reaches over to brush Harry's sweaty curls off his forehead. "Did you sleep at all?" The short tone that Harry's been dealing with every since he touched Niall is nowhere to be found.

He wants to snap at Niall, say it's not fair. He doesn't have the energy to. And even if he did, he’s pretty sure he’d used it to feel relieved instead of mad. "A bit."

"Good." Niall's thumb brushes over his cheekbone. "Are you hungry?"

His body is telling him yes, but the idea of having to sit up and choke down food doesn't sound pleasant. He declines with a shake of his head before tucking his chin under the blanket, looking away from Niall. He'll go away eventually if Harry doesn't want to talk.

He's right. After about two minutes, Gemma sets the plate of food on his nightstand, and leaves his room in a hurry. He’s not sure what he could’ve done to upset her. Then, about fifteen minutes later, Niall sighs, ducks down to kiss Harry's forehead, and leaves. 

They don't bother him again that night.

The first day, Harry has every intention of getting out of bed. He tells himself he'll watch a few hours of nighttime telly after he eats dinner, but dinner time comes around and he still hasn't moved an inch. The only time he gets out of bed is when his bladder is close to exploding. 

The second day of staying in bed, he does the same thing. He makes plans for that day in his head, and then when it comes to actually doing them, he convinces himself not to. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t recognize that his mind is slowly becoming something he doesn’t have control of.

Niall comes in once in the morning to grab the plate of untouched food from yesterday and replaces it with a new dish while Harry pretends to be asleep. It’s easier that way. Gemma comes in around dinner time, and leaves after seeing him fiddling with Belle's ears. At least he's moving -- movement's good when he gets like this. 

The third and the fourth day are more or less the same. The only difference is, is that the third day, he has a short-lived panic attack, alone, after a bad dream that he doesn’t remember. 

It's the fifth day that Harry realizes he's done this before, after his mother got arrested. He didn't leave her bed, but that was out of fear that it'd be gone when he came back. This, though. . . He almost wants to check if his ankles are shackled to the bed. They aren't, because he can use them to get out of bed to pee, but that's the only proof.


	3. chapter three

His brain is rotted, he knows that. He knows that he’s got severe enough depression that he should be on medication for it, and that he should be surprised this hasn’t happened sooner. He’s been playing with fire, not taking his medication or going to therapy. Niall tried warning him. His own brain warned him when he almost committed suicide. 

He should’ve listened. 

On the seventh day, Niall comes to his room and lays on the other side of the bed. He doesn’t say anything for a long, long time. Harry doesn’t know how long it was, but he close to sleeping when Niall finally spoke. 

“I don’t understand how you can lay here all day,” he whispers. “You probably can’t help it, but. . . Gets boring, doesn’t it? You haven’t even turned on the television in days, Harry. It was a little less scary when you were at least watching TV.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. 

“Can you maybe lay out in the living room? Please?”

Harry doesn’t.

By the tenth day, the house is entirely quiet. The only noises are occasional murmurs and the opening and closing of the front door as they leave and come home from work. They always said goodbye before they leave, and they always say hello when they get in, and Harry never responds. 

The tenth day is also the day Niall comes in at an unexpected time, though Harry stopped checking the clock on day seven. He looks determined and sad, a combo Harry's used to. "You need to shower," he says, and Harry feels his whole world stop. 

He's been waiting for one of them to come in and demand him to bathe. It happened every two days when he did this last time, and it's been five times that. He knows they were holding on to the hope that he would go by himself, but Harry's given up on himself a while ago. 

"Don't make me," he pleads, closing his eyes. He'll be too weak to fight Niall, he knows this; he's only eaten a few bites of food a day. But still, he wants to try. "I'll do it tomorrow, please, Niall, please."

"I'm sorry," is all Niall replies before walking over to him and grabbing a hold of his middle, hefting him up. He knows Harry won't get up on his own. Harry closes his eyes, lets himself be carried to the bathroom like a rag doll and sat on the toilet seat. He slumps against the cool seat, a lifeless shell of a human. 

How does someone even get like this? He’s not even sure, and it’s him.

"Can I take off your shirt?" Harry nods once. Niall does it, no help from Harry. "Your sweats?" Harry nods. It's easier to take off his pants then his shirt, he gets thrown around less. "Your pants?" It's been ten days since he's last washed, so he nods even though he doesn't really want to be naked in front of Niall. He's not entirely lost his common sense. 

He draws his knees up to his chest and sets his cheek on his knee as Niall starts the bath. Last time, the bath was always drawn before one of them dragged him to the bathroom. Niall clearly still has hopes. Harry stares, eyes collecting tears as he waits to be humiliated, but he doesn't let them fall yet. 

"Will you get in the bath yourself, please?" Niall asks, crouching down in front of the toilet seat. Harry knows it's probably to avoid any splashing, but Harry can't bring himself to care. He stares blankly at Niall. It causes Niall to sigh and stand up, hooks his arms around Harry's legs and back. Harry feels himself being hefted in the air, and he closes his eyes before he's placed in the water. 

The warm water undeniably feels good against Harry's skin; he can't help the way his eyelids flutter at finally feeling clean again. He slumps against the wall, and it forces Niall to have to reach further to wash him, but he doesn't care. He wants to, but he can't. 

The last few days he's started to not be able to even think properly. It feels like the whole world has slowed down, just for him. So his thoughts tend to trail off mid-sentence, and it makes him feel crazy. When he really starts to get overwhelmed with it, he goes to sleep. 

Niall washes him with a flannel, careful not to scrub too hard. He works his way down Harry back and then Harry's chest with great focus. He’s either trying to be gentle with Harry, or he’s concentrating on the task at hand in order to not think about how worrying this all is. 

Niall moves to his legs and his feet, and once that’s done, Niall slowly pauses. "Do you want to do it?" Niall asks, offering Harry the flannel. Harry shakes his head and only cries a little when Niall sighs, parts his legs, and begins to wash everywhere else. 

Niall's almost done washing Harry's junk and arse when the bathroom door opens. Harry pushes Niall’s hands away and starts to really cry then, when his sister walks in and gasps. She looks horrified, and Niall pats Harry's knee comfortingly. "I'm almost done," he tells Gemma. "Just have to wash his hair now."

"He's already so skinny, Niall," Gemma whispers, sinking down to the floor next to him. 

Harry wipes at his eyes before wrapping his arms around his knees again, pulling them to his chest once more. He can't deny that he's noticed that the little fat around his hips he used to have is now gone, but that doesn't mean he wants to be stared at by the only two people in the world left for him. 

"Can we be done?" Harry asks, voice hollow. "I want to sleep." As if he doesn't do that enough. 

"You can't do this, Harry," Gemma cries, reaching out to touch him. Harry doesn't move away from the touch, lets her touch his cheek like he's a sculpture in a museum. "I'm not going to sit here and watch you fade away, not again. Don't do this, Harry. Please, please don't do this. Don't do this, don't -- "

"Gem," Niall interrupts, voice almost as hollow as Harry's. "Leave. I'll be done in a few minutes and then we can talk about it."

Gemma leaves and Niall washes his hair, all the while Harry just stares ahead, letting his hair be pulled too harshly on accident. His hair is almost at his shoulders now; before he fell into this hole, he liked it long, but now it makes him feel dirty and gross. Niall works shampoo and conditioner into all of it, and he has to rub especially hard to get the stubborn grease out of it. What feels like forever later to him, Harry's being picked up again and sat back down on the toilet. 

He feels like a wet dog who jumped into the pool without permission when Niall dries him off. He towel dries Harry's hair, too, and eventually Harry's too tired to deal with this anymore and he starts getting fussy. He pushes at the helping hands over and over until he hears Niall sigh. 

"I guess it's good enough." 

He helps Harry stand, and Harry actually stands on his own long enough to be wrapped in a towel. He can walk, he knows he can, but when Niall asks if he'll do it himself, he shakes his head and allows himself to be scooped up. 

Harry almost cries at the sight of his bed and when Niall sets him down, he doesn't wait to be dressed and climbs under the thick blankets, curling into a ball like it's all his limbs know how to do. 

"I need to wash those blankets, Harry," Niall says around a sigh. "Please, don't be difficult. Let me dress you so you don't freeze when I wash the blankets."

Harry ignores him. He knows Niall won't take the blankets away from him, so there's no point in wasting any of his energy. When Niall predictably gives up and begins to walk away, Harry clears his throat. "More water? Please?"

Niall turns around, sees that the glass placed beside Harry's beside is empty, and nods. "Of course." Again, Niall sighs.

Days pass slowly and painfully. As the days go by, he swears he can feel his brain shrink. It’s like it’s being eaten away, and as it shrinks, so does the rest of him. Maybe that’s why he’s so tired right now; his body is trying to fight off whatever is eating at his brain. 

It's bordering on the twentieth day of not getting out of bed. Harry's silently thankful that he's being taken care of by kids, because any normal adult would've called for help or forced him out of bed by now. They won't let him get to a month, he knows that, but nineteen days isn't a month. 

In the afternoon, Gemma comes into his room. She's not yet mastered the authoritative look Niall has, but Harry's still wary of her. She’s dangerous when she cares, and she’s been showing him day after day that she cares about him. Sometimes she’ll come in his room just to sit with him. 

She's carrying something, and then --

"No," Harry denies instantly, tears springing to his eyes. She's holding a pill bottle, and Harry wasn't expecting this so soon. He doesn't want any type of medication swarming around his stomach when all they ever do is make it worse. "No, no, no."

Niall appears at the doorway, looking about as tired as Harry feels. "You have to, Harry. It's the only way you're going to get better."

Harry feels like the walls are closing in around him, so he starts to cry and buries his head against his pillow. He howls with the pain inside of him, tears running down his cheeks. He knows he should take the damn pills -- he already feels nothing, how much worse can it get? -- but he doesn't want to. 

Niall and Gemma both get into his bed, then. His clothed now, so Gemma crawls underneath the covers with him and pulls him into her. "We're not going to force them down your throat." It's somewhat comforting, but not enough to get him to stop crying. 

Niall sits on the opposite side of Gemma, petting at his hair. "We're not going to leave until you take them, though."

Harry sobs, then. He doesn't want to do anything. Why can't they just let him die here? If they keep bringing him food and water, he's going to keep eating and drinking enough to keep him alive, even though he doesn't want to be alive. He can't convince his body that he doesn't need it, so if they would stop feeding him, it'd be great. 

"Just let me die," he chokes out. He feels Gemma tense behind him, but again, he doesn't care. He can't care about anything anymore. He can't. 

Niall continues to pet at his hair. "We're not going to do that, buddy."

He wasn't lying when he said they weren't leaving until he takes them. Gemma leaves once, but comes back after taking Belle out to use the bathroom for the night. Belle joins their little sad party on the bed, and Harry waits for them all to fall asleep. 

It's stupid and reckless, but he's got to at least try. Harry carefully reaches over Niall to reach the bottle of pills sitting on his nightstand. He grabs them, making sure not to jingle them, and then opens the bottle. He's not going to take just the recommended two, but when he opens them, he finds that's all that's in there. 

"We're not stupid," Niall says, voice icy. He must have not been sleeping. He sits up next to Harry, glaring intently. Harry shrinks away, but he can't move much without knocking into Gemma and waking her. "You'd really do that?" he spits accusingly. "With us laying next to you, asleep, you'd kill yourself? Right here?"

"I just want to die," he whispers. To avoid Niall's judgmental stare, he lays back down, pill bottle still in hand. Niall takes it from him and fishes for the top underneath the covers. Once he's sealed it back and up and sets it back down on the table, he scratches at his neck. 

"I have work tomorrow morning," he says, making sure to enunciate every syllable. "If you don't take them by then, then we're calling the police."

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, a sob lurching its way through his throat. "Please don't," he begs. His voice is broken and bruised, desperate. "Will you please just let me die? I just want to die, Niall. I just want to die." He says it on loop, unable to stop, and he eventually coaxes himself to sleep with the lullaby of his pleas.

Again, he finds out Niall wasn't bullshitting. Gemma shakes him away at seven in the morning, saying something he can't quite make out until the fourth or fifth time. "He's getting ready for work now. Take the pills."

"Don't make me," Harry pleas, and already, he's crying. The simplest things set him off; a too-strong gust of wind could break him to pieces. 

"I don't want them to take you away," she says, and she sounds like she means it. She sounds properly scared. "They will when they see you. You're skin and bones, love. Take the pills, and if you don't start to get better, they're going to take you away until you do."

Harry closes his eyes. "So no matter what, you're going to send me away?" He doesn't want to go anywhere else but here, with Belle. They couldn't just do that, it's not fair. He deserves to have some say in what happens to him.

"Haz, we love you." She starts threading her fingers through his hair. He's getting baths every two days now, so it's not too greasy. "You can't expect us to sit back and do nothing."

"If you loved me, you'd let me die."

Niall comes back into his room seven minutes later. He's eyes fall on Harry's shaking frame, and then the pills, and back to Harry. "He didn't take them?" He looks devastated, like he didn’t think they’d get this far into their threat. 

Gemma tells him no.

"Harry," Niall tries, sitting on the bed. Harry opens his red, teary eyes to look at him. "It's your last prescription. I know they weren’t your favorite, but can you please try them? Just until we get you back on your feet, and then we’ll get you in to see Nancy, and she can find something that properly works for you."

Harry stares at him, shivering and sobbing. "You hate me," he sobs, curling in on himself. It's a clear no from him, a final act of rebellion, and Niall sighs. 

"Fine." Harry watches him pull his phone from his back packet.  _ He won't do it, he won't do it, he won't do it. _ He watches him open the phone app. _ He won't, he won't. _ He types in the number for the police, and Harry quickly sits up, gasping for breath. 

"Stop," he blurts out. "I'll do it, I'll take them. Just stop." He's sobbing so hard his chest aches with it, his body too fragile and weak to be dealing with such big blows, but he keeps going.

How fucking cruel it is, threatening him with the police when he’s so bloody terrified of them. They fucked his entire life up, even if maybe it was for the better. They are the ones who marked the change, and their people are the ones who asked him invasive questions and pretended to care and put him on the stand to ask him more private questions. Gemma and Niall know how much the police scare him. 

"I hate you," he spits, grabbing the bottle of pills. Niall's finger hovers over the call button until Harry's swallows them down with an audible gulp. "I hate both of you," he chokes out, but he still lets Niall come sit next to him. 

Gemma's hand is on his shoulder while Harry lays his head on Niall's. He cries, and he cries, and he cries, and then ten minutes later, he feels the pills slowly start to make a comeback. Just in time, too; Niall was just about to get up and leave for work. 

Harry's body has other things in mind, though, because he vomits, just barely feeling it in time to scramble over to the edge of the bed to vomit onto the floor. There's not much to it -- just pale yellow vomit with small little chunks here and there -- but there's more coming, he can feel it. 

"Fuck," Niall breathes out, just as Harry's tripping out of bed in race of a toilet. His foot gets caught on the blankets and he comes crashing down against the hardwood of his floor. 

The breath must've been knocked out of him or something, because he can't breathe. He rolls onto his back, gasping desperately for air. His tongue hurts, too, and he realizes he probably bit it. Before he can hope he didn't bite the tip of it off, vomit is coming up. 

He tilts his head to the side just in time for him to lose it all over the floor, most of it getting in his hair. He look enough of a mess to make Gemma gasp from her spot on the bed. 

Niall, who doesn't get his foot caught up in a blanket, is at his aid in seconds, pushing him onto his side, just in case there's anything left to throw up. There's not. "Breathe," Niall tells him, rubbing his back. "Come on, Haz. Don't think about it."

The air eventually does back it back into his lungs, and Harry groans. Life is too fucking complicated. He’s so sick of everything. Every time he tries, he’s knocked back down. It’s exhausting. One step forward, two steps back, and all that. 

"Shh," Niall tells him. He seems to pull a flannel out of thin air, or maybe Harry missed Gemma get up for it. Either way, Niall begins to dab at his mouth and hair. Harry just stares up at him, trying not to cry. 

When Harry finally gets passed the humiliation of it all, anger comes in full force. He sits up and wipes at his chin with the back of his hand, slapping at Niall's steadying hands. "I told you I didn't want the fucking pills," he snaps, standing to his feet. He glares at Gemma, just for the sake of it. "I told you, and you made me, and now I've gone and thrown up."

"I'm sorry," Gemma whispers, petting Belle's fur. 

Niall's not so apologetic. He's angry, too. "If you would've eaten any of the food we've brought you, you wouldn't have thrown up." He stands too, and he throws his arms up. "Look at you, Harry. How can you keep doing this to yourself?"

If he could muster up the strength, he might've punched Niall then. The anger he feels then is stronger than anything he’s felt in the last twenty days. He can't gain the energy, though, and the anger goes away just as fast as it came. He drags himself back to bed and pulls the covers over his shoulders. 

There’s still some puke in his hair. It’s disgusting, even to him. 

"I want to die," he finally responds, as if it makes any sense. 

It makes all of the sense to him. 

After that, they give him a week to get better. If he doesn't get better by then, they're driving him to the hospital and handing him off to them. Harry should be more concerned, but he's not; he convinces himself he'll find a way to die by then that doesn't involve moving. 

On the third day of the seven, they realize their threat does nothing to Harry. He's still laying there, doing nothing but occasionally petting Belle with his toes.

"What can we do?" Gemma asks, like a dying wish.

Harry's got nothing left to wish for. Nothing could make the hurt go away in his chest long enough for him to snap out of whatever thing he's in, and then he realizes why she's asking. 

It's been three years since his mother got arrested. And he's still broken. He’s still barely functioning, and it’s been over a thousand days, and that’s just about the most discouraging thing he’s ever heard. 

It's the sixth day, and he dreams of what his room will look like at the hospital. There's no way he's going to die within a day, especially because he caved in and ate the majority of his food last night and managed not to throw it up. A part of him hopes that they'll actually help him there. Maybe there, he can finally wake up from whatever daze he's in. 

He wants his room to be a light shade of purple, or maybe orange. Or maybe green. He can’t decide. And he wants their to be a desk; maybe then he’ll start journaling again. And he wants to be allowed visits from Belle as often as they’ll let him. 

A hospital isn't the only thing that can help, he soon learns. It's around dinner time, so he's expecting a knock on his door. Like usual, he doesn't answer, and like usual, the door opens anyways. The only unusual part of this whole scenario is that Louis Tomlinson is standing in his doorway, eyes puffy and red.

Harry convinces himself immediately he's hallucinating. He doesn't let the vice around his lungs get any tighter with desire, because he knows there's no way that Louis’ here right now. But as Harry continues to stare, he realizes that Louis looks older; he's got a bit of stubble and his fringe is longer, he's finally grown into his skin and the acne that Harry remembers is now gone. If Harry really is hallucinating, wouldn't it be a version of Louis he recognized?

"Jesus Christ," Louis murmurs, turning to look at Gemma. "You said he looked bad, but this, this is --"

"He can hear you," she tells him, like Harry's so broken that suddenly his ears have stopped working. 

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, not daring to move. He's wrapped in his pile of blankets, and his chest is constricting so badly he's pretty sure he might actually die here. Even though Harry keeps telling himself this must be a dream, his eyes overflow with tears and he's crying, staring at Louis, Niall, and Gemma who are all staring back. 

"Haz," Louis practically whines, taking a step forward, only to be stopped by Niall. 

Niall frowns. "He needs to get up on his own."

Harry feels so overwhelmed he could burst with it. If Louis' really, truly here, and he's not losing it or dreaming, then he's really seeing his best friend for the first time in over three years. He's seeing a strong, beautiful man and Louis' seeing a broken, ugly boy. He cries harder at that, closing his eyes and shoving his face into his pillow. 

"Harry," Louis tries again, voice sounding higher and more airy then it did moments ago. "Come over here. Please."

It's enough for Harry to know that this is real, that he doesn't need to wake up because this isn't a dream. A sharp cry busts out of his chest and he sits up shakily, not having moved so much on his own since Niall and Gemma put his recovery on a clock, except to go to the bathroom. He stands to his feet, his knees feeling ready to buckle any second but he forces himself to step forward.

Louis doesn't wait for Harry to make it the rest of the way. He rushes forward and wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders, pulling him in harshly. Harry feels so weak, so tired that all he can do is cry into Louis' collarbone and set one of his hands onto Louis' hip. 

"You're taller than me," Louis chokes out. "Jesus, you're already seventeen. You really grew up."

Harry ignores the fact that Louis knew Harry's seventeen before Harry did. (He knew it was coming up, but he didn't know it already came.) "I'm sorry," Harry cries, because he is. He’s so, so sorry. 

"Don't be, fuck." Louis pushes him back gently, though he keeps his grip tight on his shoulders. "I thought you were just being an asshole, ignoring me for no good reason, but Niall told me what happened, and -- "

Harry feels dizzy. "Niall told you what?"

Louis blinks. "That you got really badly depressed after your mum was arrested. That you never really recovered."

He feels something give in his chest, thanking every star for Niall keeping his mouth shut about Helen. But still, no matter how much he loves and misses Louis', he still feels heavy and exhausted. "What are you doing here?" he asks, hoping that Louis came on his own volition and not because Niall dragged him here. 

Louis looks guilty, and Gemma fills Harry in for him. "We asked him to come," she says. "Don't be mad."

Harry wants to be. He wants to be mad because his best friend only came here because he felt like he had to. It's not fair. "I'm not," Harry lies. In response, Louis tightens his grip on Harry's shoulders. 

"We've already made dinner," Niall starts. "And Louis can stay as long as the two of you want if you come eat it."

It's nasty, threatening him subtly with someone as important as Louis. They both know Harry won't want to disappoint Louis, that he can't. "Fine," he murmurs, gnawing on his lip. He already wants to crawl back into bed, and the thought of eating a whole plate of food with three people looking at him seems terrible. 

But Louis smiles, so maybe he can choke it down. 

Harry ignores how his muscles ache and protest as he walks. The only time he's moved out of bed by himself is to go to the bathroom, and the journey to the kitchen throughout the small apartment seems like miles, but he finally gets to the dining table. He sits with a quiet huff. 

Dinner is no small occasion. There's so much food stuffed onto his plate: steak and potatoes, peas and carrots, spinach. It looks good, and Harry's sure it tastes good as well, but the idea of shoving that all into his stomach is scary. He wants to it eat, and eat hopes it'll stay put inside his stomach, but he knows it probably won't. He doesn't want to puke in front of Louis. 

Gemma's the who initiates the awkward dialogue. "So, Louis. Are you at university yet?"

Shit. Louis' already eighteen, a proper adult. He'll be nineteen soon enough. Louis shakes his head. "I start this fall."

Gemma and Louis go back and forth with questions and answers while Harry blocks them out. He loves them both, but if he's going to eat this, he needs to focus. He can't eat too fast or he'll puke, and he probably shouldn't start off with something heavy. So he starts picking at the peas and carrots, hoping he can make it through dinner.

He notices about halfway through his veggies that the conversation has gone quiet. He looks up to everyone watching him, just like he didn't want, and he swallows down the bite that was in his mouth. "What?" he asks, a tad too defensive. 

Niall clears his throat. "Louis asked when you plan on going to university." 

Harry shrugs, not sure. "Don't know. I'm not finished with year twelve yet."

In the beginning, he was flying through the courses he had to take easily. He’s always been a smart kid -- above average, although not a genius. And he didn’t have anything else to do except course work, and that kept him busy and distracted, so he got ahead of where he was supposed to be. He’s still ahead. Technically, if he were in public schools, he’d been in his last term of his final year of high school. 

"But you only have a few classes left," Gemma points out eagerly. "You would've been finished by now if you've kept up with it."

He purses his lips, shrugging again. He didn't stop keeping up with things, he stopped being able to handle them all. There's a difference. 

"Well, do you want to go to university right after high school?" Louis asks. He's already halfway down with his plate. Crap. Harry’s still working on his vegetables. It’s going to get suffocatingly awkward if Harry’s the only one left eating. 

"I don't know," he responds, because shrugging again would’ve been weird. "I haven't really thought that far ahead."

Nancy always tried to get him to make plans for the future, but he never really has been any good at it. So he doesn’t when he’s going to university, or where he wants to go, or what he wants to study. He doesn’t know anything. He hasn’t thought that far ahead. 

Everyone seems to understand that Harry doesn't feel like being present in this conversation right now, so they leave him out of it. Louis keeps looking at him worriedly, but by now Gemma and Niall have learned to pretend like Harry's unhealthy habits don't bother them. 

Harry eats everything with little to no backlash from his stomach, but when he gets to the last portion, the potatoes, he knows it's not going to be easy. He eats a few bites, and almost instantly his stomach becomes aggravated. 

"Don't eat it if you feel like you're going to puke." Niall doesn't say it quietly, so Louis' head whips around to look at him. He looks worried and like he doesn't know what to do, so Harry fixes it.

"I ate most of it." Harry gets out of his chair to put his plate in the sink before sitting back down. He grabs his knees and pulls him towards his chest, like always. It's hard to do in a small chair, but he makes it work. "I don't have an eating disorder, Louis," Harry says, bluntly. Who knows what Louis' thinking right now.

Louis doesn't look too convinced. 

"I don't," he says, sterner. "I just haven't eaten that well in a while. But it's more of a side effect of my, like, depression, or whatever. I don't do it to be thinner or because I can't."

Louis nods, pretending like he understands. "Okay. Okay." He still doesn't sound like believes him. 

"I had the same therapist for two years and she never diagnosed me with an eating disorder, so don't you start." It's mean and maybe uncalled for, but Harry's stomach is doing somersaults and he doesn't like Louis judging him for things he can't control. 

He looks surprised. "I'm not trying to. I'm just trying to fill in some of the blanks." He scratches at his stubble, seemingly debating something. "You have a therapist?" he asks carefully.

There's a small layer of disbelief in it. Like how could Harry have a therapist if he's this bad. Niall recognizes it, and before Harry can answer, he stands up. "Me and Gemma are going to go finish dinner in our room. Give you two some space to catch up."

Louis nods and thanks them for dinner, too polite to be his Louis. "I'm done eating anyways," Louis says once they've left. He puts his plate next to Harry's in the sink and turns back to look at him. "Wanna watch a movie or something?"

Harry shrugs. "We can find something on Netflix." 

They settle on watching season one of  _ The Walking Dead _ , something they both have already seen so it's clear that Louis wants to talk. Of course Harry wants to catch up, but he doesn't want his mental health being the topic they discuss. He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again: everything he doesn’t want to talk about seems to be the only thing anyone else wants to talk about. It’s aggravating. 

"So, you have a therapist?"

Harry chews on his tongue for a second, the wound from biting it while he fell a few days ago not yet cleared entirely. "I used to see a woman named Nancy," he explains, willing to give Louis something. "She was nice. I liked her. But I stopped seeing her a while back."

"Why?" And then, shortly after: "Sorry."

Harry shrugs, deciding that he's going to tell Louis whatever he wants to know, for the most part. Louis deserves to know. He deserves to gain a bit of understanding of what Harry’s been doing and why he had to leave. 

Harry's distracted by Belle crawling underneath his feet and the face Louis makes at her, but he quickly recovers. "She was kind of weird about me being gay." It's not entirely true, and shame on him for putting her in a bad light, but he can't tell Louis the real reason. He's got to distance them from anything to do with Helen. 

Harry feels his lips perk up in a smile when Louis tries to cover up his shock, and it makes him kind of want to cry. It's the first time he's almost-smiled in a while. "You're . . . gay? Not that I care, but, you were always so weird about it when we were kids."

"How so?" Harry wasn't weird about anything. He hates to think about him being weird about something like that. 

"Not bad weird, calm down." Louis shuffles closer. Initially, they sat on opposite sides of the couch. "Just. Iffy about it, you know?"

Iffy. He doesn't remember that. "I just wasn't as sure about it as you were." Harry flicks his attention towards Louis. "And the boys at school, how they treated you. It made me a bit iffy, I guess."

He expects Louis to draw back, be hurt but he's not. He laughs. Laughs at past traumas like they're nothing. "Yeah. But that was all primary school shit, you know? Like, when people started to actually realize not everybody was straight in high school, I was kind of popular."

"You're shitting me." Harry's full on smiling now, mostly in disbelief. Louis, the kid who had constantly picked on for everything and anything -- his dad’s death, his step dads, his sexuality -- was popular? And Harry wasn't around to see it. Maybe Harry was the one holding him down.

Louis laughs again, loud and beautiful as always. "Nope. I joined the footy team and guys started to like me. And all of your old friends kind of flocked to me after you left." He bites his lip, not sure how close to the eye of the storm they can get. "Zayn, Liam -- they’re like my best mates now."

Harry audibly flinches, and he doesn't mean to, it's just. It's good to be reminiscing, but he's left so many people behind. He's not thought of any of his older friends in a while, hasn't even felt bad about abandoning them all until now. He always felt bad about Louis, because they were best friends, but Liam was quiet and relied on Harry to show him around, and Harry disappeared.

"I'm sorry," Louis says softly, scooting closer to Harry. They're almost touching now. "I don't know what's free to talk about."

"No, no." Harry gulps down the lump in his throat and tries to smile. "It's okay. How are they?"

Louis' face lights up. "Well, Zayn's one of my best friends now, even if he's still in year ten. He's really into art and stuff, and he's become a lot more quiet as he gets older, but. Taylor, um -- I know you two weren’t that close, but she joined drama after you left and we got on really well." Louis skips Liam. It makes Harry's heart skip a beat. "That Nick kid you were friends with, the annoying one, he graduated a little while back, but he still comes back every now and then to help out in the drama department."

"How's Liam?" He wants to know, and he wants to know why Louis left him out.

Louis tenses, gets a bit shifty. His eyes focus on the television screen and he smiles softly. "Liam's doing fine. He's still very tense, you know -- goes to school, tells his mum he loves her everyday, follows the rules. I earned him a detention a few weeks ago and he nearly busted my balls for it."

Harry knows Louis too well to think that that's it. The way Louis' face lights up and he smiles like he's remembering something fond. Harry tries to remember him ever getting this way, and when he realizes he hasn't seen him this way before, his mind narrows it down. "You're in love," he whispers, like it's a secret. 

Louis looks caught. "I'm sorry," he says.

"You've got nothing to apologize for," he promises, though tears flood his eyes. He can't help it, and he doesn't know why. He tries to tell Louis that it's nothing, that he's fine, but he can't stop crying, no matter how hard he presses his palms into his eyes.

Louis wraps his arms around Harry as best as he can, whispering apologies against Harry's side. 

Harry calms himself down quickly, shutting down what he's feeling because what he's feeling is stupid. "Tell me about him," he begs. "Like, I know Liam. But tell me all the stupid stuff I should already know." He can't believe he missed his best friend falling in love for the first time. God, what else has he missed?

Liam laughs at all of Louis' jokes. He's not big on PDA, so Louis' stomach flips when he holds his hand in public. Louis and Liam starting seeing each other about a month after Harry left school, and they had sex on the first date. And the second one. They're third year anniversary is approaching fast, and Zayn already told Louis what Liam is getting him, and Louis doesn't know how he's going to beat it. Liam is nice, and a big hugger, and has respectable parents, and makes Louis feel safe and secure when he's feeling lonely. 

Essentially, Harry's been replaced with a shiner new toy. It hurts terribly.

Louis tells Harry all of these things with his head still tucked between the sofa cushions and Harry's side, and when he smiles, Harry's able to feel it. His talks really fast and sounds so happy. So happy that Harry feels selfish for dragging him to London. He should be in Holmes Chapel with Liam, and everybody else Harry left behind. 

"What's your mum think of him?" Harry asks, though he doesn't really want to know. Jay's opinion means the world to Harry, and if Jay thinks Liam's good enough for Louis, then Harry has to start thinking that, too. 

Louis laughs, a little awkward. "She's happy for us," he says, but the happiness in his voice is gone. "She knows he's a good kid and that he's good for me, but." 

Harry holds his breath. But?

"But she thinks that I rushed into the relationship too quickly after you left." Louis sits up a little, supporting himself on his elbow, looking at Harry intently. Harry's misses the warmth at his side. "She says that I'm using him to avoid dealing with your absence, and that I should break up with him because it's not fair to drag him along if I'm not in it for good reasons."

Harry disagrees with Jay, evenly though he so desperately wants to agree with her. "You're happy with him. It's obvious."

"I know." Louis drags his eyes to the screen. "It's just." He laughs. "It's probably dumb, but she had it in her head since we were kids that we were going to run off and have chilidren together." Louis draws his attention back to Harry, looking guilty. "And she knows I thought that, too."

The confessions is too big for Harry to process entirely right now, especially with Louis so close. Louis and Harry were never like that together; Harry's sure that if they  _ were _ like that, it would've worked, but they never were. The closest thing they ever got to running off together was the hand job Louis gave him in the bathroom at school. They didn't even kiss. 

Harry licks his lips, now the one avoiding eye contact. He's not going to do this right now. He's almost mad at Louis for doing this to him, because all he can do now is sit here and dissect their years of friendship, desperate to find something that would show Louis liked him like that. Louis was always touchy and invasive, but he was touchy and invasive with everyone, and now he's got Harry choking on what ifs. 

Louis sighs, shuffling over so they're no longer sharing a bubble. It's quiet for too long, and then Louis fills the silence. "The plan halfway worked, I guess. You sure ran off. Got pretty far, too. London's a bit too posh for you, but I guess I don't really know you anymore."

Harry freezes at the anger in his voice. He doesn't want to fight, he doesn't have the energy to, and he doesn’t know why Louis is suddenly so mad. "I haven't changed much," he says, and it's stupid. Stupid and untrue. 

Louis calls him out on it. "Haven't changed? Look at you, Harry. I barely recognize you, and not just because you've lost so much weight." How did this conversation turn on him so quickly? "You didn't have to run. You were going through some shit, and maybe I didn't know to what extent, but you've could've dealt with it at home."

"That house wasn't home to me anymore," Harry whispers. "I wasn't running, either. Gemma was the one who wanted to move."

"You should've fought to stay."

This is too much. Harry's surprised he lasted this long, but he’s been suppressing the urge to go crawl in his bed for Louis, and now Louis' turning against him. He closes his eyes, choosing not to respond. 

It's not good enough for Louis. "I'm not trying to upset you. I just want to know why you left. Why you felt the need to cut me off without a word. Don't you think I deserve to know that much?"

"Yes. You do." But he can't tell him, can't tell Louis anything about it. He doesn't want Louis to know; Louis' the only person left that matters that doesn't know, and he wants it to stay that way.

"Tell me."

Harry glares at him, all the last bit of fire he has in him coming out. "I lost my mother and then two days later my dad killed himself. You know how badly I deal with loss, how close I was with her. Don't you think losing both of my parents and being adopted by two kids is enough of a reason to not want to be anywhere near the past?"

"I think that after your got your head on straight, the first person you should've wanted to call was me."

"This isn't about you, Louis!" Harry cries. "This is about  _ me _ . I didn't get out of bed for almost a month after she was arrested, and you think that I wanted to talk to when I finally did? I was a mess, a fucking shit storm." Louis looks like he's about to say something else, but Harry doesn't let him. "I told myself I would call you the minute I got my shit together, but I never did. You said it first, Louis; look at me. _ Look _ at me. I'm still a fucking mess, three years later, and I can't -- " Tears threaten to pour over, but he's not sad, he's angry, so they better not fall. "Do you know I couldn't go out of the house by myself until three months ago? I don't have a therapist anymore because I had a nervous breakdown in her office, so screw your assumptions about that. Gemma hates me, and Niall hates me, and I'm just a burden on everyone, and --  _ God _ , Louis. I tried to kill myself. I want to die. And you think that somehow, this boils down to  _ you _ ?"

Louis looks near tears. "You're not a burden on anyone."

"They've had to give me baths themselves for the last twenty-some days. They had to make me food and bring it to my room and I would barely ever eat it. I made them get me a dog, one that we probably can't even afford, and I can't even take care of her." God, this feels good. "I love you Louis, I do. You're my best friend, always have been, even if I'm not yours anymore. But on the days when I can't even think or do anything except lay in bed and cry, do you honestly expect me to have any room to miss you?"

"I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be, that's not -- shit, nobody's done anything wrong except for me. Can't you see that? I've already burned down everything, and I'm still sitting here trying to set fire to the ashes."

Louis shakes his head, eyes cloudy. "Don't say that. They wouldn't do all that if they didn't love you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't love you."

"That's not enough for me." The tears start to rain down, unforgiving and fast. "I know that sounds terrible, I know. And I wish it was enough for me but it's not. It's not, Louis." What's going on in his head is something bigger than love, something stronger and less relenting. 

Louis' eyes flick towards something behind Harry and Harry follows them, turning around. Niall's leaning against the wall near their bedroom, listening. He doesn't pretend to look less irritated when Harry stares at him through broken, glossy eyes. 

"Can I just go to bed?" Harry begs. "I'll be better tomorrow, I promise, I just wanna sleep, Niall." He won't be better tomorrow, and he knows Niall knows that, so there's no point in lying. He's not even embarrassed about falling apart in front of Louis because he doesn't care about anything, goddammit. He feels numb and lifeless, like he's breathing through tampered lungs. 

Niall uncrosses his arms, serious. "Take your meds first and then you can sleep."

"I don't want to argue about this anymore."

"Good, me neither," Niall says. "So take them and don't throw a fit. You won't puke this time; you're stomach isn't empty."

His stomach is already in knots, and he knows he's playing with fire by eating or drinking anything else, but Niall looks so done, he doesn't want to fight anymore. He's so sick of fighting. "Can I please take them tomorrow?" he asks, making sure not to sound too demanding or pitiful. "I already don't feel well, Ni. If I eat breakfast in the morning, they shouldn't make me throw up if I take them afterwards."

Niall thinks it over while digging his teeth into his bottom lip and then shrugs. "Take a shower on your own tonight, and then sure."

They're trying to get him back to normal by forcing it, it's clear. Threats and negotiations only go so far, though. They don't kill the roaring of pain in his chest and the fog in his head. If anything, they make him feel even more distant from reality. 

"Fine," Harry whispers, hoping the steam will help lessen the tension in his stomach. 

Niall actually looks relieved, finally like he's won something. "Good. Go ahead and get started and I'll be there in a second." He turns to go into his room for something, but Harry stops him. 

"You don't need to watch me shower, Jesus."

Niall rolls his eyes, making a noise that's too close to a laugh. "Don't pretend that you won't go digging in the cabinets looking for something to hurt yourself with if I don't." He leaves without another word, cold and distant. 

Harry ignores the fact that Niall doesn't trust him at all anymore, and gets to his feet. He wraps his arms around his stomach and sighs. He's halfway to the bathroom when Louis clears his throat. His feet pause, but he doesn't turn around. 

"I can stay with you," Louis whispers, careful. "If you'd rather me over Niall. It's fine either way."

Harry smiles. It's faint, but it's there. "I'm fine with Niall. Thank you, though."

Showering never used to be particularly dreadful for Harry, but now his legs are aching and he keeps getting lost in what he's doing. He started shampooing his hair five minutes ago, but he's given up on it and now he's just standing, letting the water rain down on his head. 

His stomach is still in knots and it's becoming harder and harder to decipher what hurts because he's in actual pain and what's from his anxiety causing havoc on his body. Whatever it is, he grows tired of trying to ignore it and lets it take him down to his knees. 

Before he can get comfortable on the shower floor, Niall's peeking in through an opening in the curtain. "Hey, none of that," he encourages, "you're almost done, come on."

"I'm so tired," Harry whispers into his knee before he closes his eyes. He wants to sleep, and he doesn't care if he has to do it with watering running on him. 

Niall opens the curtain a little more so he can see Harry entirely and sits down on the floor. "If I draw you a bath, will you do that yourself?" He tries to sound positive. "You won't have to stand for so long, come on, Haz."

Harry ignores him. All he wants to do is sleep, not take a bath or a shower. 

"Harry," Niall tries. Again, nothing. A few minutes pass by of Harry sitting there and Niall watching him before Niall makes a small gasping noise, too close to a cry for Harry's liking. Harry opens his eyes, and sure enough, Niall's eyes are red-rimmed and leaking. 

"I'm sorry. I'll finish my shower, just." He closes his eyes again. He's being selfish, but he can't help it. "Just give me a few minutes."

"Do you have any idea how much you're scaring me?" Niall asks loudly, voice muddled with tears. "God, Haz. Me and Gemma are terrified. We have no idea what to do. This isn't like last time, you aren't getting better. Why are you getting any better?"

"I'm not made for this, Niall," he explains, voice shaking. "Living, being happy -- that's just not what I was made for. I can't do it. It's too hard."

"But you did it for so long, Harry. You were getting so good." Niall lets out a loud, wet cry. "I thought you were finally free from all of it. And then you tried to kill yourself, and I know it sounds stupid, but I was waiting for you to bounce back. You always get better, you've always gotten better."

"I'm sorry." That's all he can be. 

"I know what happened with that Jack guy must've been scary, but love, haven't you gone through worse things before?" Niall sound so exhausted, but here he is, genuinely trying to understand Harry. It's enough to get Harry at least considering finishing his shower. 

"I don't know what's happening to me," Harry confesses through a strained, small voice. He looks at Niall through his eyelashes, blinking slowly. "I don't think it's about Jack or Helen. It just feels like my body's just decided it's time to give up, and -- "

"You can't give up, Harry. You're only seventeen. Do you know how much life you have left to live? College will be the time of your life if you let it. You've got to keep pushing."

Harry only closes his eyes as a response. He's tired of pushing, tired of trying. Shame on Gemma for ever saying he didn't try, he thinks bitterly. Because  _ this  _ is him not trying.  _ This _ is him giving up. 

He suddenly remembers his conversation with Nancy about his fears. He told her he was terrified of always just coasting by, and that he'd eventually fall into the arms of security or sink to the depths of sadness. She had asked him where he thought he was headed, and he lied saying he didn't know. Truth is, he just didn't want to jinx himself by saying that he thought he was on the right track out loud. He didn't say it aloud, but he still feels like he jinxed himself. 

Niall taps his fingers on the side of the bathtub, regaining Harry's focus. "Can I ask you something?" Harry nods once. "Do you even want to get better?" It's not layered with judgement or anger, Niall's strictly curious. "And don't say you just want to die, because I don't think I can take hearing you say that again."

"I know I can get better," Harry says. He doesn't realize it's the truth until he's said it. "I can, I know I can. There's times I actually really, truly want to get out of bed and do something, and if I forced myself to do those things, I would be okay by now." He takes a deep breath. "But there's going to be something else to knock me back down.

"Not mentioning anything that happened before her, first it was Dr. Connie, and I tried to come back from that. I made my attempts -- coming clean about my meds, coming to you guys for help. Next, it was me who fucked things up. I know that. I can't blame what I did to you on Helen. But I tried fixing things with you, And then Gemma, telling me I should kill myself when that's all I could think about?" His voice hardens, fixing his stare into the tiles before him. "I'll never forgive her for that."

"She feels terrible about it," Niall whispers, almost ashamed to defend her. "About everything wrong she's ever said to you."

Not a single part of Harry's grudge gives in. "I'll never forgive her for it," he repeats. He starts swirling his fingers on his knee, trying to remember what happened next. "Attempting suicide was, again, my fault. I wouldn't have done it that night if it wasn't for Gemma, but I'll take the blame for that one. But even then, even when I was bleeding out and more than willing to die, I listened to Louis and let him help. I went to you again for help."

He's not sure where's he's getting at with all of this; all he knows is that it helps. "And then I gave you your space and started to carve out my own little spot in the world. I got a job to make me feel good about myself, and then came along Jack." He's voice cracks on his name. It makes him mad. "And it might have took my seven weeks to ask for help, but I did it eventually. I got the help I needed." He sucks in a shaky breath, tears pricking at his eyes. "Now my whole body is turning in on itself. It's like a switch turned off in my brain and I can't reach the light switch, how's -- " he looks at Niall, " -- how's that fair? I can't control what's happening to me, I can't help that I'm so tired all of the time and that I don't want to get out of bed. If I can't fix me, there's nobody to ask for help."

Three tears fall down Niall's cheek. 

"I put the work in, time and time again. I went to therapy, never missed a session. And I tried new meds almost every time one of them stopped working. I ask for help, I continuously seek support. Most kids don't do that, most kids are too scared to. But I did, and everything still went to shit, over and over and over. How's that fair, Niall?" He's pleading for answers, begging Niall to fucking help him. 

"It's not, I'm sorry."

"That's what I mean when I say I don't think I'm made for this." Harry blinks back the tears, his fingers on his knee stilling. "Clearly, no matter how hard I try, I'm just not meant to be happy. Life has other plans for me. So fine. I give up. No more pushing, no more fighting, no more asking for help. I'm done."

Niall reaches for him, doesn't seem like he can help it. His palm falls onto Harry's knee, and his sweatshirt is getting wet but neither of them care. "You can't be done, you hear me? I need you still. I'll never stop needing you. And your sister, God, she needs you more than ever. She wants to make things right with you, even if she maybe doesn't deserve to. Louis took a fucking train here to see you, he needs you, too. He's angry right now, but he needs you. He's always needed you. So you can't quit, you just can't. You might believe that our love for you isn't strong enough to help, but I think it is. It has to be."

Harry grabs onto Niall's hand, clings to it before he can think better of it. His bottom lip is quivering and he's shaking because the water's now gone cold. "What do I do?" Another plea, and yet another attempt to make things right. 

Harry wants to live, at least he's pretty sure he does. He wants his lungs to be able to gulp down fresh air without hesitation, wants his heart to beat without his rib cage aching. He wants to learn to love and to hope, and he wants to go more than ten minutes without thinking about Helen. He's just sick of it being so hard. Why is it fair that people can go a lifetime without feeling shackled by sadness when he can't even go a day? It's not fair that he has to work so much harder than the average person to do the simplest things. 

"Finishing this shower is the first step," Niall tells him, squeezing his hand. 

Harry can do that, he can. He's taken thousands of showers in his lifetime, this should be easy. But sitting on the cold, hard floor with his chin set on his knee is so much easier. It's quiet for a few minutes, beside the stream of water drilling a hole against Harry's shoulders. Niall squeezes his hand again, tighter. Harry takes a deep breath. It's just a shower. 

To lift himself up, he uses Niall's hand and the wall. His legs feel weak and wobbly, and his knees shake when he stands, but Niall won't let him fall. He never has. Once he's fully standing like a newly mounted statue, his chest heaves and no amount of delusion can help to convince himself that it's just water running down his cheeks. 

Even if he showers with a shaking frame and through tears, it doesn't matter. He's still done it. After he's done, he's cold and wet and tired, so he kind of wants to make Niall help him get dressed, but he doesn't. He's made it this far, hasn't he? No point in giving up now. 

Niall looks away when Harry gets dressed, pretending like he hasn't been the one giving Harry baths for the last few weeks. Harry pulls on the t-shirt and sweats Niall brought for him, silently wishing for a sweatshirt. 

He can't deny that he feels a little proud of himself when he finishes, but then a sharp twist in his stomach brings him back to reality. 

"My stomach hurts," he mumbles, and then yawns. He's exhausted. 

Niall's still a bit teary-eyed when he looks at Harry, and Harry doesn't know if it's happy tears or sad tears, so he ignores them. "You can go lay down for bed, if you want. It's late enough."

He wants to sleep so badly, but there's also his best friend in the living room who he hasn't seen in a long time. He still hasn't asked about Lottie or Jay, or if Louis has any more siblings Harry doesn't know about. They have a lot of catching up to do. Sleep can wait. "I'm going to try to stay up for a little longer," he decides. He grabs his dirty clothes off the ground so he can throw them in his laundry basket, and he leaves the bathroom. He's surprised Gemma hasn't came barging in yet; they've been in here at least half an hour. 

Gemma's not in the living room, they soon find, and neither is Louis. Niall tells him not to worry and that he'll text and ask Gemma where they went, and while Niall does that Harry goes to his room to discard his laundry and grab his blankets and pillows; he's not sleeping in his bed tonight, because there's no sure way to know he'll get out of it in the morning. 

He sets up camp on the living room couch and quickly gets comfortable.  _ The Walking Dead _ is still playing on the telly, so he watches that as Niall talks in hushed tones in the kitchen. If something's wrong, and there almost always is, Harry will find out eventually.

He falls asleep a few minutes later, but he's being shaken awake before he has a chance to dream. He tries to ignore it at first, but whoever it is, they are relentless. Harry blearily opens his eyes to find Gemma crouched in front of him. He closes his eyes again and pulls the blanket over his shoulders before groaning a little. "What?" He's tired, and maybe he should be a little more respectful of Louis' time, but he's tired.

Gemma starts to play with Harry's hair and he's almost lulled back to sleep before she sighs. He snuggles deeper into his blankets, but then Gemma begins to talk. "I just wanted to say goodnight."

Harry makes a noise. "Night," he slurs. She starts to move her fingers again and Harry's done for. He slowly fades back into sleep.

Louis had to go home due to a family emergency, one that Gemma won't talk about except for promising everyone's okay. When she tells him over breakfast, Harry trusts her, though he probably shouldn't, and continues to eat. After he's finished eating, he takes his antidepressants without arguing.

He'd be a complete liar if he said he didn't want to go back to sleeping in bed all day, but he pushes it down and forces himself to do things normal people would do. He fakes it until he makes it, and when he's actually made it, even then he has to fake it every now and then. 

Nancy tells him he has to stop analyzing everything and simply live in the moment. He's starting seeing her again, with the exception that they don't talk about his sexuality. Nancy also tells him he has to start working on going out of his apartment more if he still plans on going to university.

It's June now, and he's already finished high school and did his college applications. He got into University of Cambridge by some lucky force, and he's still not sure what he's going to study there, but he's going. He has to; Nancy tells him goals are important, and it's his goal to go. 

But he'll be so far away from home, and he's not sure he's ready for that yet. He had a panic attack at the grocery store yesterday, one so bad that Niall had to abandon their cart and guide him out of the store. He doesn't even know why, it kind of just hit him, and it made going to university that much scarier. Niall's going to be almost two hours away when he has the same panic attacks. Harry's never going to survive it. 

(He's breaking Nancy's rule about analyzing.)

Putting aside his mental health, Harry's got other things to worry about. First of all, he's broke, so that's great. He still has a little money tucked away from the coffee shop, but that's barely going to cover the expense of his textbooks. He's got to eat, you know. Niall and Gemma tell him not to worry, that they'll figure it out. Second of all, he's coming to realize he barely knows how to do anything. He goes out shopping with Niall and cooks dinner if he's up for it, but besides that, his knowledge of being a functioning member of society is limited. And lastly, he's not going to know anybody. He's going to be all alone, and he doesn't do well with being alone. 

A knock at his door snaps him out of the black hole that is his thoughts. Belle jolts up at the noise, and that's another thing: what the fuck is he supposed to do without his dog? He tells whoever is at the door that they can come in, and Belle takes it as a sign that everything's fine and lays her head back down in Harry's lap. 

"Since when do you journal again?" Gemma asks, leaning against the door frame.

Harry shrugs, tossing his journal at the bottom of the bed. "Figured I could start again, that it'd be good for me."

She smiles. "And? Is it working?"

"Nope. I get too distracted." For the last half hour, he's been doodling random things on top of the words he wrote. One time in school, Zayn tried teaching Harry how to draw. It ended in Zayn hitting him over the head with a notebook and saying that he drew like he didn't have any thumbs. Some things haven't changed. 

"Niall and I need to talk to you. So we're ready whenever you are." Gemma's keeping a straight face and her posture loose, and if Harry guessed, he would assume that nothing is wrong. But Gemma has been really working on being a better guardian, so he can't read her like a book anymore. 

"Is it bad?" He sounds like a child getting ready to be reprimanded. 

Her expression falters. "It's. . . yes, it is. It's bad, Haz."

A thousand different scenarios run through his head, but he forces them down. _ Live in the moment. _ "Is it about me?"

"No, love. You've not done anything wrong." She smiles sadly. "Just. . . whenever you're ready." 

He's not going to be ready for whatever is to come, but he nods anyways. There doesn't seem to be a way around it. As soon as Gemma leaves, he gets up from bed. Belle whines so Harry soothingly kisses her head. "You're invited, too," he tells her before walking out of the room. 

Belle doesn't follow, so he's alone when he enters the living room. Niall and Gemma are already waiting for him on the sofa, sitting with a few feet apart between them. Harry knows he's expected to sit in-between them so he does, but he doesn't try to hide the fact he's uncomfortable. He stares straight forward with his hands in his lap, waiting. 

Niall takes the lead in telling him. Harry's kind of glad; things are always easier coming from Niall, they feel less like an attack. "Remember a while back, when Louis had to leave because of a family emergency?" Harry nods, clenching his jaw to brace himself. "We decided not to tell you any of the details because Louis asked us not to, but now we have to."

"Jay was sick, Haz," Gemma whispers, like she can bare the idea of saying it any louder. 

Harry's throat closes at her words and everything's too cloudy to notice the use of past tense. Jay is Louis' world, and maybe it's selfish to worry about Louis' well-being over Jay's, but he does. "Is she okay now?" 

Niall shakes his head. "No, bud. She's not. She, uh. She died a few nights ago."

The world begins to slow down again, and the breath seems to vanish from his lungs. Jay was strong and she was beautiful, exactly what the world needs. She took Louis and Harry on countless road trips and vacations, gave Harry advice when he asked for it, and especially when he didn't. Not only did Harry not get to say goodbye, he didn't even get to know she was sick. 

"How'd you find out?" Harry asks. He's surprised to hear how tight and choked his voice sounds. 

Gemma curls against his side, setting her head on his shoulder and holding his hand. "Louis called us a few hours ago. The funeral's tomorrow, and he understands if you don't want to be there."

That's absurd. Why wouldn't he want to come to her funeral? Maybe Louis thinks he's still a wreck and he wouldn't be able to handle it, but shit. Harry wouldn't miss being there for Louis on a day as important as that. "Did he sound okay?"

"He's very angry, but I think that's to be expected." She rubs his shoulder and squeezes his hand. "We get it if you don't want to go. It's going to be hard and you haven't been at a funeral in years, but we think it's important that you're there for Louis, you know? Right now he's going out of his mind trying to take care of everybody. Liam is in the States for college, so he's on a plane right now, but that means Louis hasn't got a change to really talk to someone about it. He came here to be with you at your worst, it's only right to be there for him at his."

This is all too much at once. He wishes he found out sooner. The idea of having to construct a straight face by tomorrow sounds torturous. He wants to say of course I'll be there but he can't be certain he won't puke the second he opens his mouth. This is all too much.

"Haz," Niall whispers. "It's okay to be upset. To cry. You're allowed."

He's so sick of crying and having so many things to cry about. He takes a deep breath. "Do you think I could talk to him? Before the funeral, I mean." 

"I don't know if that's a good idea." Niall's probably right. Louis just lost his mum, he doesn't need Harry poking his nose in the night before the funeral, asking questions. 

If he can't talk to Louis, he needs to talk to someone. "Could you call and ask if Nancy has an opening today?" It's only nine in the morning, so if anything, she can squeeze him in during her lunch break. He just needs to talk to someone who has answers. Any answers. 

Niall gets up immediately, probably going to find his phone. Gemma and Harry both listen to one side of the conversation Niall is having over the phone, and then he's saying, "9:30 to 10? Yeah, that works. Thank you so much. . ." Harry stands, knowing that means he has to get ready fast so they can be on time. He doesn't look back at Gemma as he goes. 

As he cards through his closet to find something to wear, a thought dawns on him: what is he going to wear to the funeral? He hasn't needed to look formal to anything for years, and now he has to go to something as serious as a funeral. He doesn't own anything that wouldn't made the priest kick him out of the church. It shouldn't be the thing to set him into tears, but it is. 

Niall finds him crying on the floor in front of his closet, head in his hands. Harry hears him sigh sadly. "What's wrong, H?" 

Harry sniffles, looking up at Niall with wide eyes. "I don't have a suit to wear to the funeral."

Niall tells him they'll look through Niall's closest to see if anything will fit Harry. If there's nothing in there, they'll go shopping tonight. "We'll figure it out. It's no big deal." 

He's right; it's not. They'll find a suit without any problems. There's no need to be crying over something so silly. But crying over Jay is too painful right now, so he lets himself fret over finding a matching tie. 

"You're still taking your antidepressants, right?"

Harry frowns, looks up from the string he's toying with. "Yeah, why?" It's not fair to doubt him because of a few bad months. Before that, he's never had a problem keeping up with his medication. 

"I'm just making sure," Nancy tells him, keeping her voice light. "It's my job to check-in."

It is, he knows that. But he can't help but feel like she doesn't trust him. He doesn't press it, only because they only have fifteen minutes left and Harry still hasn't told her what happened. "Louis' mum died," he says lowly. He ties a knot into the string. "She was sick. Louis didn't tell me."

"Why do you think he wanted to keep it from you?"

"No idea." He understands they weren't on speaking terms, not really, but he still deserved to know. Louis would've never kept a secret this big from Harry when they were kids. It's not fair. 

Nancy is quiet for a moment. The silence doesn't make him look up like she probably hopes it would. "You seem angry."

"I am. And I have a right to be." Another knot. "I don't believe Jay wouldn't want to see me, especially after so long. So the only reason why I didn't get to say goodbye was because of Louis."

Again, there's a beat of silence before she talks. This time, it does make Harry look up. Nancy's frowning. "Do you think, maybe, Louis didn't tell you about his mum for the same reason you haven't told him about yours?"

"No," he says instantly, defensive. "Those are two completely different things. I haven't told him about Helen because he'll hate himself for not knowing something was wrong. I'm protecting him, he's -- "

"Protecting you," she finishes for him. Nancy rarely cuts him off, and when she does, Harry knows to be quiet. "He was protecting you, Harry. He saw how depressed you were when he came to visit. He probably didn't want to add to your stress."

So it's his fault. Great. Louis probably wanted to talk to him about it, but since he was such a mess, he couldn't. "I still deserved to know," he says quietly, desperate to hold onto his anger. "She was a huge part of my childhood." Nancy's staring at him blankly, and he needs to make her understand. He's not sure he understands himself, though. "When I was nine, and I broke my wrist on a trip with my dad, I had to wear this white, bulky cast. Louis said it made me look like a transformer, and I didn't like the transformers, so I freaked out. Jay spent a half hour coloring it blue so Louis would like it better."

She sets her pen down onto her clipboard. Apparently the happy portions of Harry's childhood don't interest her.

He continues anyways. "When Louis went to his first formal dance, I couldn't go because I was too young. She knew how upset I was about the whole thing, so she invited me over and we made cookies and watched X-Factor." He's wasting valuable time of the session, but he can't stop. "She came to Robin's funeral, she invited me to her weddings. I was practically her part-time kid. I deserved to know. Louis wasn't protecting me by not telling me."

She waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. He's done talking, because there's a lump in his throat that's getting harder and harder to talk through. "I don't think that's why you're upset."

Harry blinks. He's pretty certain that's why he's upset.

"If that is why you're angry, I'm not trying to invalidate your emotions." Nancy smiles softly at him, and he knows she's trying to show him she doesn't mean any harm. "I think you're feeling this way because you didn't get to say goodbye to another important person in your life. You didn't get goodbye with your step-father, or your mother, or your father. With Louis or any of your other friends when you left school. Do I have this right?"

He didn't this had anything to do with anybody other than Jay or Louis, but when she puts it that way. . . "Maybe. I guess. I don't know."

"If you attend the funeral tomorrow, I think you might receive some closure. It might help with what you're feeling."

She's right; it probably will. His eyes flick towards the wall on the clock, and they one have seven minutes left. He has so many other worries he needs help with. "I'm going to have to be the strong one," he whispers, going back to his string. "For Louis, I mean. I'm gonna have to be strong for him. I don't know if I can do it." Louis was always the strong one, Harry's not sure how he's going to fill his shoes. 

"All he needs is for you to be there. He's probably not expecting you to come. It'll mean the world to him if you do."

He kind of hates the way she talks about Louis like she knows him. Nobody -- not Gemma, or Niall, or Nancy -- ever really gets him right whenever Harry talks about him. "I'm going to have to see everybody. All my friends from high school. They're going to want to know what happened. Why I left."

She shrugs lightly. "Tell them what you want to tell them. They don't need to know anything more or anything less. And besides, tomorrow is going to about Louis and his family. You won't have to face the threat of attention."

Again: she's right. But Harry knows himself better than that. As soon as he steps foot into that church, he's going to convince himself he's attached to a spot light and everyone's looking at him, even when they aren't. He's going to be there, though. He has to. For Louis.

"I think I'm gonna throw up," Harry groans, resting his head on Niall's shoulder. They’re still in the cab, which has been parked outside the church for almost five minutes now, and Harry's really, really regretting coming. He feels terrible about making this about himself, but he's going to have to face all of Louis' siblings and his old friends, all on top of the sadness of losing Jay. He knows he has to be here for Louis, but the actually being here part is hard.

"If you say that one more time, I'm kicking you in the shins." Gemma is the first to pile out of the car and Niall shortly follows. They're both wearing black, and so is Harry. It’s a suit of Niall’s, so it’s a bit small in some places and a bit too big in others, but it looks mostly nice on him, so they decided not to waste money on a new one. 

Harry sighs, crawling across the seats to go out the same whey they did. He almost falls getting out, but before he can, Niall catches his arm and hoists him back to his feet. 

A sharp, low whistle follows. Harry turns around in surprise to find Nick Grimshaw leaning against a car that must belong to him. He's a proper adult now, all tall and filled out. His hair seemed to have grown with him, adding a few inches onto his height. He's wearing sunglasses, just like Harry is. "Henry Stars, long time no see. Wasn't sure if that was really you, but the fall seemed to help jog my memory."

His cheeks burn. "Hey." He gives him a short wave, and Nick must take it as a sign they're going to talk more because he walks closer.

"Haven't seen you in a hot minute," Nick says, dropping an arm around Harry's shoulders. It’s a heavy hold, but Harry doesn’t brush him away; he doesn’t want to look rude. Nick starts to walk towards the church's open doors, tugging Harry with him. "Where have you been?"

Harry ignores the question. "Louis and you never got along. Why are you here?" He doesn't realize how rude it sounds before he sees Nick's face fall. 

"Jay always helped around for the shows. Props and costumes and that stuff. Almost everyone from the drama department from high school is here." Nick's other hand comes around to squeeze his cheek before Harry ducks away from it. "Besides, Tomlinson and I bonded within your absence." He's smirking, and Harry immediately, looks down uncomfortable.

"We’re at a funeral,” he reminds quietly. A funeral for Louis’ mum. Nick talking about having sex with Louis isn’t appropriate right now.

Niall and Gemma are walking behind them, and when they reach the church doors, Gemma tells him they're going to go sit down. 

"Find Louis," Gemma tells him strictly. 

"I will," he promises. He will. He's just got to work up to it.

They go off, and Nick takes a deep breath as they both try not to seem too uncomfortable about being in church. Harry hasn't been in a church in years. 

"Don't take this the wrong way," Nick starts, looking down at him through his glasses. Harry wants to go find a seat, too, but Nick steers them elsewhere. It's a room where everyone's conversing quietly with sad looks on their face. Harry's gut wrenches when he sees Zayn and he quickly puts his head down. "I reckon Louis was quite ticked off at you when you left school. Proper pissed, I mean. So what brings you along? It's not like anybody here has heard from you in years."

Despite the request, Harry does take it the wrong way. He’s not sure there was a right way to take it. He shakes Nick's arm off of him, glaring at him even through the sunglasses. "Jay practically helped raise me. My mum and her were best friends, and so were Louis and me. Just because I left doesn't mean I don't deserve to be here."

Nick shrugs, tucking his hands in his pockets. "You didn't visit her when she was sick. The town had a big gathering for her when she was first diagnosed. Your name was whispered the entire night. Everybody was expecting you to make an appearance."

"I didn't know she was sick," Harry spits, grabbing Nick's arm to stop him from walking any further. It’s not an aggressive hold, even though anger is rattling his bones. "Nobody told me. Louis didn't want me to know."

"If you would've checked on anybody in a fifty mile radius from here, they would've told you." Nick brushes his hand off of him. He's clearly angry. "You left everyone, and why? Because your fucking mum took a trip to a prison? She didn't fucking murder someone, Haz. Nobody was going to be malicious towards you because of it. For a month straight, the whole school was holding its breath, waiting for your to come back. Everybody fucking loved you; Harry Styles, the soon-to-be-rock star. And you left."

Harry's chest caves in on itself as the tears burn his eyes. Harry didn't want to talk to anybody because he couldn't. Shit, is everybody going to be this angry with him? He wasn’t even that that close with Nick. "You don't know anything about anything," Harry seethes, clenching his fists. "I'm here for Louis. Because he asked me to be."

He's so caught up in trying not to punch Nick that he doesn't see Zayn come over. Harry jumps when Zayn sets a hand on his shoulder. Zayn got older, too. His features are sharper and more mature, his hair cut looking less dorky. "You two are at a funeral," he says quietly, "not a boxing tournament. Harry, nobody's heard from you in years, so they're all watching you. Don't make them think you've turned into some selfish prick."

Harry swallows thickly, glancing around to see that yeah, actually, everyone is. They're pretending like they aren't, but he sees a woman he doesn't recognize point at him and whisper something to her friend. He wonders if Gemma and Niall are going through the same thing. Harry turns his attention back to Nick, but he releases his fists. "I didn't want to leave. I had to." Nick opens his mouth to say something, but Harry quickly cuts him off. "You don't know anything, Nick. Please don't act like you do."

Nick's mouth turns up into a sarcastic grin. "When you decide to pop back in a few years down the line once someone else has died, it'll be nice to see which parent you’ve taken after. Daddy who swallowed a bullet or Mummy who stuffed some cash in her pockets and ran." He laughs a bit, stepping back. "That is, if you decide to show up to whoever's funeral it is. We all know you didn't go to your dad's." He walks away with a shrug, like he didn't just destroy Harry.

"I can't do this," he breaths out, turning on his heel to make a beeline to the door. His palms are sweating and his heart is racing. He can't be here, he made a mistake in coming. He didn’t realize everyone was going to be so angry at him. 

Before he can get very far, Zayn grabs his arm and holds him back. Harry turns around frantically, sees the way everyone's gone quiet and is staring at him trying to make his escape. "Hey, hey," Zayn says soothingly, trying to smile.

"What, do you want to yell at me, too?" Harry throws his hands up before pulling at his tie. He feels suffocated. "God, Zayn, I had to leave, I had to. You don't know -- "

"Yes I do," Zayn whispers. He grabs Harry's hand and guides him outside so Harry can breathe; Harry only remembers now that the beginning of their friendship starting a lot like this. Zayn has his fair share of anxiety, too. 

Once he gets outside, he sits down on the stairs and holds his head in his hands. His phone burns a hole in his pocket, begging him to call a cab. He could just go -- find a shop somewhere nearby to hang out at until the service is over, and then Niall and Gemma can come to him and then they can leave. 

Harry just wants to go back home. 

"Grimshaw's a dick," Zayn says conversationally, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He offers one to Harry, and he declines. He wishes he hadn't, though, when Zayn takes the first puff. Who knows; maybe choking on puffs of nicotine could be the cure to his anxiety. "That much hasn't changed."

"We were just talking," Harry says, voice thick with tears. "I didn't do anything, I didn't say  _ anything _ and he just jumped down my throat. Does everybody feel that way about me?"

Zayn shakes his head. "The talk about you and Gemma died down after a year or so. There are some nasty people who've started some pretty vicious rumors about your family, but. For the most part, people just wonder what you’re up to." He takes another drag of his smoke. "It's kind of like you died, you know? Just without the funeral."

He doesn't know. He had no clue. "I had to leave, Zayn. Don't think I just left you all because I wanted a change of scenery, or something."

"I know," Zayn says again. He sounds wise and tired. Their conversation dies down and the noisy cars fill their places. People slowly file into the church, the funeral still an hour away. They came early so Harry would have time to talk to Louis. 

After a few minutes of silence, Zayn stubs his cigarette out and sighs. "Do you know that if you dig deep enough, you can find out anything?"

Harry nods. "Like, with social media and stuff, yeah. Can't hide much anymore."

"Exactly." Zayn turns to look at Harry, a frown engraved in his face. "It's not hard to find out what a felon was convicted for. Especially if they're on the sex offender list."

Harry blanches, his stomach turning violently. His eyes widen and after staring at Zayn in horror for a few seconds, he tries to get up, to run, but Zayn grabs his arm and yanks him back down, none too gently. 

"Stop," he hisses, squeezing Harry's arm. Harry's chest is heaving. The only thing he can think is _ run, run, run _ . "I'm the only one who figured it out. That I know of, at least. And I haven't told anyone."

It doesn't do anything to cool the fire in Harry's veins. He hates to know that Zayn knows what Helen did to him. He’s probably got some wild theories about it in his head, and Harry  _ loathes  _ that. How could he invade Harry’s privacy like that? He probably didn’t know that it was Harry’s privacy he was invading at the time, but that doesn’t make it any better. 

"What the hell were you doing poking around in my business?” he snaps, his chest still feeling tight. “You had no right, Zayn. I -- Gemma told people that she stole money from work for a reason. I didn't want anyone knowing, why -- "

"Because you were my best friend and you fucking left," Zayn spits, eyes highlighting his anger. He's not wearing sunglasses, never one to hide his sorrow. "I know Louis was your best friend, but you were mine. And then you were _ gone _ . And I couldn't just sit back and believe that the sweetest woman I knew just woke up one day and decided to steal money from a small company."

Iif Zayn couldn’t believe Helen was capable of being a thief, Harry wonders how much disbelief he was in when he found out what he  _ was _ capable of.

Harry runs a hand over his mouth, stopping to tug at his hair that's hanging over his shoulders. He would've gotten a haircut if he was told about the funeral sooner. "You didn't tell anyone?"

"No."

"Good." His head is whirling. He had no idea you could just find something out like that. "How easy was it to find out? Like, how long did it take?"

Zayn shrugs. "Ten minutes or so, tops." He finally lets go of Harry's arm, and then he grabs Harry's hand instead. Harry lets him intertwine their fingers loosely. "You could've told me. I could've helped."

"I'm not having this conversation with you right now." He feels bad as soon as he says it. He didn't realize Zayn saw him as his best friend, and Zayn deserves to know  _ something _ , to have some sort of answer, just like Louis did. "I know you could've helped. But I didn't know she was doing anything wrong then. I didn't know I needed to ask for help."

Zayn nods. "Figured as much." He squeezes Harry's hand before letting it go. He lights another cigarette. "Louis' in the bathroom. He's been in there for the past, I don't know, hour or so. He's with Liam. Everybody's got to take a piss, but Lottie isn't letting anybody in."

Shit. That's not good. He selfishly hoped Louis would have himself collected by now. He's scared, but he stands anyway knowing he has to be there for Louis. Louis was ready to be there for him after Helen was sent to prison, so he needs to be there for him now. "Show me the way?" he asks, reaching a hand out to Zayn. Zayn takes it with a nod, and they walk back inside ignoring everyone's stares. 

Lottie sees them coming, and Harry wouldn't have known it was Lottie if it wasn't for Zayn telling him so. She's much taller, and much older. Her hair is now bleach blonde and her skin is tanned. She's no longer a child. 

She marches over to them, setting her hands on her hips angrily. "Where have you  _ been _ ?" she snaps, but then grabs him in fiercely for a hug. 

He hugs her back after a few dazed seconds. "You're not little anymore," he tells her like she didn't already know that. 

"Neither are you," she says back. Before he can ask what she means, she pulls back from the hug. "He's not good. None of us are, but Fizzy and I have been busy taking care of the twins, which you haven't even met, but. Point is, I need you to go in there and give Liam a break. Liam's taking care of him fine, but he doesn't know Lou as well as you do. Louis' still trying to convince Liam that he's okay."

Harry nods nervously. He's not sure how he can know someone better than their boyfriend, especially after being MIA for years, but he's going to pretend it's true. It's the confidence he needs. He doesn't allow himself to be dramatic, just opens the bathroom door and walks right it like he isn't bricking it.

"Don't fucking touch me, fuck. I'm fine, just let me wash my face and -- "

"Louis, you aren't fine, stop trying -- "

"Yes I am, stop -- "

"If you're fine then why are we holed up in a bloody bathroom?"

"Just give me five fucking seconds to breathe, would you?"

Their argument is getting louder and louder as Harry steps out from behind the wall in front of the door. He doesn't remember a time in which Louis was so angry, not like this. Liam's obviously just trying to help, but he seems frustrated and tired. They've probably been arguing the entire time they've been in here. They both stop, though, when they see Harry. 

When he finally sees them, Liam's extending a hand towards Louis that Louis won't take. They're both dressed in slick black tuxedos and red, puffy eyes. Liam's big and strong, and his hair has much to gel in it. He’s got an actual beard, too, not just some a little stubble like Louis has.

Louis stills, slowly letting his hands fall down back to his sides. "I didn't think you'd be here." His voice is hardened and emotionless, but the tears in his eyes give him away. 

Harry ignores the surprised look on Liam's face and swallows. "'Course I am. I wouldn't miss it."

Louis nods for a little longer than necessary, like he's trying to focus on doing that instead of crying or yelling. His head stills, and then he nods once more. He smiles a little, not even close to being real, and then he steps forward. 

Harry doesn't need anything else to know Louis needs to be held right now, so he fills in the rest of the gap with long, swift strides until Louis' collapsing into him, sobs erupting out of nowhere. They hug fiercely, both clinging on to the other harder than needed. Louis claws at Harry's back, and It's probably wrinkling his suit and Louis probably doesn't even know he's doing it, but neither of them stop it. 

From over Louis' shoulder, Harry catches Liam's sharp expression, his jaw clenched and the look of disbelief on his face. Only moments ago, Louis was yelling at Liam not to touch him, and now Louis' allowing himself to be held by Harry, who is essentially a stranger to Liam now. 

Harry holds Louis and Louis cries, and eventually, there's a knock on the bathroom door. Louis pulls back from Harry before the door opens, and Fizzy is standing there in a pretty black dress. She looks different as well. "The service is starting in five minutes,” she tells them. Her eyes only stay on Harry for a moment before she nods -- a thanks, maybe -- and leaves. 

Both Harry and Liam watch Louis take a deep breath, wash his face, take another deep breath, and then try to smile at himself in the mirror. When it fails, he spins around to grab Liam's hand. "We should get going."

Always the selfish one, Harry's heart sinks when Liam brings their clasped hands up to his mouth and plants a tiny kiss on them. Louis smiles, more convincing than the one he gave to the mirror, and begins to tug Liam towards the bathroom door. On the way, Louis grabs Harry's hand, too. It makes his heart flutter more than it should.

The three of them walk hand in hand all the way to where the service is being held. Louis starts to noticeably slow down as they reach closer and closer to the doors, but Liam and Harry both tug him forward to keep him moving. As they walk through the rows of pews, Harry spots Niall and Gemma sitting in the middle of the mass of people. Harry's hesitant, not knowing who to sit with, but Louis squeezes his hand. 

"Stay with me," he pleads. When Harry looks at him, there's tears in his eyes again, and he knows Louis' desperate to keep them from falling. Louis keeps his head high and his voice low. "I can't do this without you. Either of you."

It makes Harry's stomach do something ugly, the thought of being equal to Liam. Liam and Louis were barely acquaintances before Harry left, and now they're dating? It's hard to digest, and Harry can't help but feel the need to out-friend Liam. It's terribly selfish, but he can't help it. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Liam says, because Harry's just dumbly looking at Louis instead of responding. "I reckon Haz feels the same way."

"Right, yeah. Of course," Harry squeezes Louis' hand to show he means it, and Louis' thumb traces over his knuckles. 

They sit in the front row, in the middle of Louis' sea of siblings. Phoebe is on Harry's right, and he can't believe how big she is. He does the math in his head, and realizes that she's six now. So is Daisy, obviously. He can't look at her long because she's bawling, and it hurts Harry's heart. He would try to comfort her, but he doubts she remembers him. 

An older man Harry recognizes as one of Louis' stepdads -- he can't remember which one -- approaches them with a little toddler in his arms. The baby boy is crying, and Harry really doesn't know why he thought the hardest part of all of this would be facing everybody. He didn't take into consideration that everyone would be crying and heartbroken. 

"Louis, will you take him? Fizzy and Lottie are busy with Doris and Daisy, and I need to give the speech." The man looks desperate, but Louis rolls his eyes. His jaw is hardened, and Harry instantly doesn't like whichever step dad this is, and only because Louis doesn't. 

He releases both of their hands to grab the toddler from the man. "Just go sit down and don't fuck it up," he seethes viciously. Louis holds the boy close to his chest as the older man leaves to go sit a few spots down the pew. 

"I can hold him, Lou," Harry tell him, because Louis doesn't need to be worrying about a kid during this. "You should be focusing on what's important right now."

"Ernie's important," he argues weakly, but he still passes him off to Harry, who accepts him graciously. _ So you’re Ernie _ , Harry thinks.  _ Nice to meet you.  _ The toddler doesn't seem to care he's in the arms of a stranger. In fact, for the most part, there's not a single trace of anything negative on his face. He doesn't know that his mother's dead, and that he's at her funeral right now. He probably won't remember it when he's older. 

Harry's large hands squeeze the baby's middle gently. Maybe that's for the best.

The service is beautiful and heartbreaking, and Louis doesn't cry once. He sits there, staring straight forward, and even though tears are apparent in his bright blue eyes, he doesn't let a single one of them drop. He's so strong. Harry could never keep it together like that.

The rest of the day comes and goes as a blur. Louis has stuff to do so he can't guard Harry the entire night (shouldn't it be the other way around?), and Harry finds Gemma and Niall to hide behind. They handle all the awkward, stilted conversations, and Harry's grateful. 

It's nearing time to go as it's almost dark out. After the burial, everybody shuffled into the Tomlinson-Deakin household. Some people left after the service, and even more left after the burial, but there's still too many people here for Harry's liking.

He's so fucking selfish, but when Niall gets up to have a wee and it's only him and Gemma, he tries to plant seeds for an escape. "What time are we leaving?"

Gemma shrugs gently, glancing around the house. She's probably remembering all of the times she was dragged in here by Harry so they could show her whatever they did that day.

Harry remembers, too. He remembers everything. Louis cried on that staircase once, Lottie broke her arm in the kitchen, they watched  _ Law & Order _ here, on this very same black couch, almost every other week. It's like a ghost town of all the memories he tries to hard to forget yet cherish at the same time. 

"I don't know. We should be one of the last to leave though, don't you think?"

No, Harry doesn't think that. Harry thinks he wants to leave right the fuck now. He can't handle the stares he's still getting. But he nods and sighs gently into his red plastic cup, begging for the night to hurry up already. 

The hours trudge by slowly, and it's nine o'clock at night when Harry finds himself sitting in the backyard by himself. He's just had an awkward encounter with an old teacher that he would very much like to forget about, and he has a raging headache that's probably made up so he can try to leave. Still, he sets his head in his arms and closes his eyes, trying to will it away.

It can't be more than fifteen minutes when the sliding door opens, and Harry stays still in an attempt to be hidden. It's dumb and it certainly doesn't work. Somebody sits down next to him, and his heart leaps when he realizes it's Liam. 

"Hi," Harry says. 

Liam frowns like Harry's already said something wrong. He takes a sip of whatever is in his cup before setting it down and looking at Harry. "Tell me you had a good reason to leave and I won't ask about it."

Harry blinks. So they’re getting straight to the point, then. No awkward small talk beforehand, no ‘how are you?’ He appreciates how blunt Liam is with it. Every single one of those people inside don’t have the balls to ask. They just stare at him like he’s something important. 

"I had a good reason to leave," Harry mumbles, and something seems to settle in Liam's brain. 

He nods. "Good. So long as you didn't hurt him just to hurt him."

"I would never. He's my best friend." Harry shrugs gently, tears his gaze from Liam and towards the overgrown bushes on the fence line. "Was. Whatever."

"Is," Liam corrects gently. A small moment passes before Liam clears his throat. It's what Nancy does when she wants his attention, so Harry looks at him again. "Louis told me you tried to commit suicide a few months ago."

"Oh," is all Harry can get out.  _ Oh. _ Why would Louis tell him that and why is Liam bringing it up? It's obviously a sore subject. Harry reaches out self consciously to rub at the covered scar on his arm. 

"I was there that night," Liam tells him. "At his house. We were. . . um, together, and his phone went off. It was some stupid ringtone but he nearly shoved me off the bed when he heard it."

Harry bites gently on his lip. He recalls Louis sounding tired that night, but maybe he wasn't tired from having just woken up. Maybe he was tired from fucking his boyfriend that Harry didn't know about. And it makes Harry unreasonably angry, like it changes the way Louis looked after him. It doesn’t, it’s just -- when Harry felt the most alone he’s ever felt, Louis was in a house with people who loved him. In a bed with a boy who loved him. And that just doesn’t seem fair. 

"You should've seen him, Haz." His voice sounds distant. Nostalgic, almost. "He's whole face lit up and then it dropped. So, so quickly. It's the happiest I've ever seen him, and then it was the saddest and it was. . . " He takes a deep breath, and then smiles gently at Harry. "I wasn't surprised that you were behind it."

Still having nothing to say for himself, Harry stays silent. Liam doesn't seem to mind. 

"I was shocked when I heard him talking to you, you know? Like, about what you'd done. You were one of the happiest people I knew." Liam shrugs, scratches at his beard. It looks good. "I knew you had really bad anxiety and stuff, but it's, like. I don't know. Maybe it's wrong, but anxiety doesn't exactly equate to sadness in my head. I mean, look at Zayn. He's pretty happy. Anxious as shit about everything, but happy."

"I was depressed," Harry says dumbly, tongue feeling thick. "Always have been, really. Even back then, at school. It just. . . got really bad there for a minute. I'm okay now."

"You aren't," Liam says fiercely. "You're holding yourself like if you don't you're going to collapse. I don't know you, not anymore, but you look like somebody's holding a gun to your head whenever someone's talking to you."

"I'm shy," he defends lamely. "I grew out of that extrovert phase."

"You don't just grow out of that," Liam says, and he sounds a little angry. "That's who you were, Harry. That's. . . that's who Louis fell in love with all those years ago. And it's destroying him to see that it's not who you are anymore." 

Harry could be sick right now. If he was at home, he'd probably go linger around the bathroom just in case. He's so sick of hearing about how Louis was in love with, because everyone's been saying it to him indirectly at night.  _ You two were so good together, Louis adored you, he's so happy you're here, you being here is a real help for him. _ Harry didn't know that Louis ever thought of him like that, so people need to stop using it against him. 

"He's still in love with you, I think," Liam says. His voice is thick and guarded. 

Harry sits up at that. Not happily, just shocked. "Don't say that. He's so fucking in love with you, Li, I've never seen him like that before. His whole face lights up when he talks about you. We were kids; he didn't know what love was back then."

The look Liam gives him can only be described as a glare. "I would kill to be loved by someone as much as he loved you." He scoffs a bit and rolls his eyes, takes a long slip out of his drink before putting it down again. "I know he loves me. Maybe he's even in love with me. But  _ you _ . . ." Liam closes his eyes, rubs at his temples. "You will always be his first priority."

"Because we're best friends," Harry insists, "that's how it's supposed to be, isn't it?"

Liam laughs, a little hysterical. "No, Haz. It's not. It's not, like, bros before hoes anymore. We're adults now. The reality is that is that I'm supposed to be his number one, maybe behind his mum or something, but not behind somebody who ditched him years ago."

Harry doesn't respond to that, because he's not quite sure there's a way to reply that won't piss Liam off more. He stays quiet and looks up at the moon, wonders how it manages to be the center of attention even among all of the stars. Five minutes or twenty minutes could pass before Liam finally starts a new conversation. 

"I'm sorry about your dad," he murmurs quietly. "It's awful what he did."

The only thing Harry does it nod, feeling strangely too choked up to respond. 

"I don't know how he could just leave you like that." Liam sounds guilty, almost. "Maybe that's unfair, but. . . you were a good kid. Smart, funny, polite. Talented. I don't know how he could give you up like that."

Harry's throat is constricted and he's biting harshly on his tongue so tears don't fall. He doesn't understand it either. He's not everything Liam said he was, but he never can understand why he wasn't enough for his father. He was too much for Helen, too little for his father. He doesn't understand it.

"I don't know if he was thinking straight," Harry hears himself say. It startles himself, almost. "Helen just got arrested and even though they were divorced, they always had a good bond. They didn't talk, but. . . they were still really close, if that makes sense." He sniffles, swipes as his cheeks fiercely. "He couldn't handle it, I don't think. Maybe he'd regret doing it if he were still alive."

A warm, soft hand envelopes Harry's knee. Harry laughs a little, and he keeps wiping at his cheeks but tears keep reappearing. "I'm sorry. For crying on you for no reason and for leaving you. You counted on me, you know?" The tears finally stop falling. His cheeks feel sticky. "I know that."

"I survived," he jokes lightly. "Pushed us all out of our comfort zones, I think. Everybody was watching us; me, Zayn, Louis. They were all worried about us, since they knew we were pretty close. We had to do something with that. Louis joined the football team, I ran for class president and got all the pity-votes in the world, and Zayn. . . well, Z never really branched out. But he's good at playing the mysterious one."

Harry wonders if he couldn't 'branch out' because of what he knows about him. If the idea of Harry being violated to that extent was enough to scare Zayn, or something. 

From there on, the conversation flourishes easily. They laugh and laugh and laugh, and it's kind of like old times but better. They've just finished reminiscing about the time Louis poured orange juice down the front of Liam's trousers and told the whole that he'd pissed himself and everybody thought he had an STD because it was orange when Liam suddenly turns very serious. 

"I like you, Harry. I do." He sounds genuine. "But I swear to God, if you hurt him again and I'm left to pick up the pieces. . .”

"I never meant to hurt him," Harry argues, eyebrows drawn together. "I had to leave. And I'm here now, aren't I? Doesn't that count for something?"

Liam scoffs. "In his world, it counts for everything. But I'm serious, Harry. If you leave here tonight and don't come back or return any of his calls, I will make sure he never wants to talk to you again. I'll lie, I'll make something up, I don't care. You aren't breaking his heart again. Especially now."

Harry nods stiffly. Liam's large and muscular and intimidating, and Harry's slender and lean and scared of everything. Liam knows it, too, which is why Harry thinks it's a bit unfair to use it against him. 

At that exact moment, Louis finds it best to find them and come out on the back porch. He looks absolutely exhausted and his face looks puffy, but other than that, Louis' still gripping onto his tight exterior until his knuckles turn white. He smiles briefly at them before plopping down on the porch next to Liam. 

"Hi, love," Louis whispers. It's meant for Liam and only Liam, but Harry still hears and his stomach swoops with sorrow. Louis curls his hand around the shoulder of Liam's suit and kisses sloppily at his cheek. Liam chuckles quietly, wraps his arm around Louis' small waist. 

"How are you?"

"I'll cry about it later," is all Louis replies, and both Harry and Liam nod shortly. He will, they both know that. At least Louis can admit it to himself. 

Much like Zayn had done earlier, Louis pulls out a box of cigarettes and lights one quickly, using his hand to shield the wind from blowing out the flame. 

Liam stiffens. "You told me you quit."

"Told you I was thinking about it," Louis argues, lips curled around the cigarette. 

"No, Louis, fuck. You told me you hadn't had a smoke in a month last time I saw you."

Louis scoffs, shrugs as if Liam doesn't have a right to be mad. "Argue with me on today about fucking smoking and I'm sending your ass back to America."

The sigh that falls from Louis’ mouth is one of defeat. "Fine. Whatever. Just don't lie to me again."

Louis hums and curls into him. The cigarette smoke gets into Harry’s face, but he tries not to let it bother him. “Alright. Fine. I won’t lie, so long as you don’t break my heart like Harry did.”

It’s -- it’s just mean. And uncalled for. Harry was staying silent to be considerate of Louis and Liam’s space, and Louis decided to make a dig at him for no reason. He’s mad, and Harry understands that, he does, but it’s not fair. It’s not fair to be mad at Harry for doing something he didn’t even realize he did.

"Stop fucking telling me you were in love with me, you fucking idiot," Harry hisses. "I didn't know. You never told me. And apparently everybody else fucking knew and I didn't, so yeah, maybe I was a fucking idiot, but that doesn't fucking matter now."

"We went to school dances together, we -- "

" _ One _ ,  _ one  _ school dance!"

"Because that's the only one you were fucking around for."

"Do you really think I wanted to leave?" Harry nearly screams it, nearly loses it and spills everything right then and there. Why does nobody think of how hard it was for Harry, leaving everything behind him? If any of them truly knew Harry, they’d know that he’d never want to move like that, not in a million years. "I lost fucking everything, Louis. You just lost your mum -- I lost both of my parents within forty eight hours of each other. Imagine going through that at fourteen and with a brain as fucked as mine. You don't know what happened, you don't know  _ anything  _ that happened, so stop trying to make me feel guilty for fucking leaving."

"You can't hide behind your mental illnesses, Harry."

"You don't know fuck about my mental illnesses." Harry stands to his feet, and immediately, he becomes aware of Liam's presence again. He tries to ignore how intimidating Liam looks. "You don't know what it's like to be broken, so don't toss around that word that you understand it. You have an amazing boyfriend who loves you dearly and a whole giant family who'll have your back."

"I would've had your back."

"Aren't you fucking sick of arguing about this?" Harry's screaming now, and he doesn't think he can stop himself. "I know I am. I've had this argument with you, I've had this argument with Nick, I've had this fucking argument with my own fucking sister. I'm sick of it! I tried to fucking _ kill myself  _ and you're acting like I'm being a baby about all of this."

"You are!" Louis looks small like this, with Harry staring down at him with a heaving chest. "You have meds and you have a therapist. You have two people who look after you day in and day out. You tried to kill yourself because you stopped caring about all that. You stopped going to therapy, you stopped taking your medication. How did you think that was going to go? That was your own fucking fault."

" _ None  _ of this is any of my fault!"

"Take some accountability for yourself," Louis snaps, stands to his feet now, too. "All of this is your fucking fault, Harry."

Harry's fists clench, and this isn't what it was ever like when he hit Gemma. Something doesn't come over him that he can't control, he can control this. He knows he can. He just doesn't want to. 

"You don't know anything. You claim to have been in love with me, but you didn't even known what was happening to me under your own fucking nose."

Louis scoffs, doesn't even process how that's the closest to the truth he has ever gotten. "What? Your life was fucking perfect, Harry. I was bullied and I was abandoned and I don't cry about it every five seconds."

He tries to remind himself that Louis doesn't know. He doesn't know how badly his heart his stinging with the words he just said. If he knew, he would feel terrible. Louis doesn't know. 

"You were well-liked and your sister loved you. Your mum loved you and -- "

"Don't fucking talk about her," Harry practically growls, his fingernails digging into his palm. 

"Why?" Louis laughs, throws his hands up. "She's still alive. You still have a mother. She'll be out in a few years, won't she? She didn't do anything that bad."

That's when Harry makes the calm, collected decision to march forward and punch Louis square in the jaw. For some reason, he didn't expect it to hurt him, but it does. Pain radiates through his whole hand and he curses loudly, trying to shake it out. Louis is clutching at his mouth with a tightly drawn grimace, kind of toppled in over himself. Before Harry can do anything else -- would he have done something else? -- he's being slammed against the hard bricks of the house by a very, very angry looking Liam. 

Liam has Harry pinned against the house, both hands going to shove his shoulders against the bricks harder. It doesn't really bother Harry; he doesn't plan on doing anything else to Louis, he’s sure of that now. He just lets his jaw clench and turns his head to look at Louis so Liam's nose stops brushing against his. 

Louis' chest is heaving and he's glaring at Harry, his hand still cradling his already swollen jaw. Breaking their heavy eye contact for a moment, Louis turns his head to spit out blood against his porch. It might stain. Harry selfishly thrives off of being a part of this house again. 

"What the fuck was that for?" Louis snaps, bringing his eyes back to Harry's. Louis' not scared of him. He’ll never fear Harry. 

"Don't talk about my fucking mother," is what Harry says, keeping his tone even and calm. In response, Liam's hand curl tighter around Harry's shoulders. "I told you not to talk about her." 

"Shut the fuck up," Liam hisses, his nose pressing into the side of Harry's cheek. If he's honest, the close physical contact with someone makes him incredibly uncomfortable, but he doesn't let it show. "I should beat the fuck out of you right now."

Harry laughs shortly, feels a bit out of his mind. He doesn't regret punching Louis but at the same time he does. Louis was talking about something he knew nothing about and it made Harry more than a little angry, so he feels as though it was justified. Louis looks sad and hurt under his steely exterior, though, and that makes him feel guilty. Guilt isn't the same as regret, though; he wonders if Helen feels like that. 

"Fucking do it," Harry snarls, because he knows that Liam won't and if he does, there's no way people inside haven't heard the commotion going on out here yet and they won’t let him get hurt too badly. He wonders why nobody has come outside yet. "You're too much of a fucking pussy. Always have been."

Just as he hears Louis tell him to shut the fuck up, Liam's fist comes rushing towards his face. He can't dodge it, not with Liam's other hand still holding him still, and thankfully, his head doesn't split open when it bounces back against the brick wall. It sends a wave of dizziness through him, one that almost outweighs the pain in his nose, so he groans quietly and closes his eyes. He almost doesn't feel himself being shoved to the ground, feels too out of breath and panicked to do much but gasp for air, but when he opens his eyes, Liam's hovering above him.

"Liam, what the fuck are you doing," Louis hisses, but it sounds distant. "Get off of him, what the  _ fuck. _ "

And Liam doesn’t want to, Harry can tell. He wants to sit there and hit Harry over and over and over again. For hurting Louis, time and time again. For hurting him. For showing back up here like he had any right. 

But Liam’s not that vicious. He’s not the type of guy to do that. And even if he was, he wouldn’t do it to Louis’ best friend. He cares about him too much. 

He gets off of Harry after letting out an angry huff, and when he stands, he brushes off his shirt like Harry’s gotten it dirty. Louis shoves at his chest, looking beyond angry, and he’s shouting something. Harry can’t make it out, and only then does he realize that he’s probably having a panic attack. 

Harry rolls over shakily onto his hands and knees. His limbs are trembling under his weight and he gasps for breath. He knows one will come eventually, they always do, but he also knows it could take up to twenty minutes to do so. He feels himself scramble towards -- something, he doesn't know, his eyes are shut tightly, but his arm reaches out to find something hard, something made of wood, so he shifts his body weight around so he can lean against it. For one stupid second, he leans his cheek against his arm, causing the pain to scream, so instead, he throws his head back and just tries to breathe.

Small, dainty hands grab his large one that's shaking almost violently against his knee cap. His eyes openly frantically to see Louis crouched down in front of him, but everything seems to be spinning and his eyes are heavy. 

"Breathe, you fucking idiot," Louis tells him gently, uses both of his hands to squeeze Harry's. 

"Can't, I can't, can't," he chokes out. He tries to muster up enough strength to hold onto Louis' hand but it doesn't work and he closes his eyes again. He sits there with a heaving chest and a throbbing headache with the knowledge that he's the one who started this. 

"Get away from him," he hears Gemma's voice clip. It's familiar and he didn't just punch her in the face, and that instantly makes this all less scary. "You're not helping." A warm hand brushes away the sweaty strands of hair that are sticking to his forehead, somehow avoiding all of the places that hurt. It's Gemma's, he can tell by the way her sharp, long nails scratch lightly at his hair. Thankfully, Louis' hands don't let go.

It takes a short amount of time for him to start breathing properly again, and he can't help but wonder if it's because of Louis' presence. It's not, he knows that's not how it works, but he clings on to the idea because it makes everything seem okay. 

"Niall's going to kill Liam," Louis says offhandedly, not really meant for anyone. His head is turned around and Harry follows his eyes and yeah, Niall looks extremely pissed off and he keeps jabbing his pointer finger into Liam's chest. Harry doesn’t even remember either of them coming outside. 

Gemma's watching nervously, too, and Harry sighs lightly. "Gemma, please go calm him down."

"He's an adult," she snaps back at him, turning her head to make sure he can get a good look at the glare that's directed at him. "Adults don't use their fists to talk, Harry. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Harry ignores Louis' presence for a moment, not even sure if Louis' listening. "He was talking about Mum," he tells her hoarsely. "Told him to stop and he didn't."

"So you leave," she says, not sympathetic at all. "You leave and you keep your hands and feet to yourself. Didn't you learn that in kindergarten?"

"I was mad," he defends lamely.

She scoffs. "You're going to university soon. Fucking act like it."

Harry stares at her blankly. He deserves it, he knows he does. The bruise blooming on Louis' jaw tells him he deserves it. He wets his lips with his tongue and glances to the door, just curious, and everyone who hasn't left yet is crowded around the door like they're watching animals at the zoo. Embarrassment is heavy on Harry's cheeks; at least they aren't outside, at least they don't have a front row seat. 

"Lou," he hears himself say quietly. Louis slowly drags his eyes from Niall and Liam and towards Harry, his thumb brushing across Harry's knuckles instinctively. "I'm sorry. About -- about your mum and for hitting you. I'm sorry."

Louis shrugs gently. "I'm sorry your face looks like it's inside out." He's angry, Harry can tell, but at least he's not going to punch Harry back. "And I'm sorry about your mum, too. Shouldn't have said that."

"You don't know anything about her."

Louis rolls his eyes before looking back at Niall whose finger is now wagging in Liam's face. "So you keep telling me."

A few minutes go by of Harry, Louis, and Gemma staring at the argument that Liam and Niall are having. Harry's not really listening, their voices fading into harsh noises against his ears, but eventually, Liam rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in surrender. 

"I should go inside," Louis murmurs. He sighs, finally takes his hands off of Harry to swipe at his jaw, maybe looking for blood. There isn't any. "It'll take some of the heat off of you. If I go first."

Harry frowns and shakes his head. He's about to tell Louis that he deserves to be gawked at for his irresponsibility, but he can't convince himself he actually means it. "Thank you," he says quietly, ashamed. 

"You can't leave yet, though. I'm serious. You're not leaving yet."

Gemma sighs quietly, reaches across to brush the hair out of Harry's face again. "His face is broken. He needs to ice it. We should go home."

He wishes Louis and Gemma would stop being so dramatic. He got hit in the cheek, once; his face isn’t bloody broken, and it probably doesn’t look like it’s inside out. He hopes so, anyway. It hurts badly, and the back of his head is ringing with nauseating pain, but it’s not that extreme. 

Louis looks fierce, and Harry knows he's not backing down. "We have ice here, obviously." Gemma gives him a look that begs him not to test her right now, and Louis sighs. "I want him to stay. I've barely talked to him so far. He's here, and no, this day isn't about him, but I know the minute he fucks back to London he's going to start ignoring my existence again. I want him to stay."

It's true, and that's the hard part of it to swallow. After Harry tried to commit suicide and he had promised Louis that he'd call him back, he didn't. After Louis went back home after he came to see him and had to leave, Harry didn't answer any of his texts or calls. It's almost like Harry doesn't feel deserving of Louis, so he pushes him away. 

"Fine," Gemma sighs. She turns her attention to Harry. "You need to go and talk to people to make sure they know the real you. This isn't you, Harry, and now you've convinced the whole town you're exactly who they thought you were." She reaches out to pat at his shoulder. "If you ever start a row again I'm going to break your hands, okay?"

Harry smiles gently. It makes his whole face ache. "Got it."

Against Gemma's request, Harry hides away from everybody. He quickly makes his way upstairs and to Louis' bedroom, and maybe he should've asked if that was okay, but he's never had to ask before so he's not going to start now. He feared he would accidentally walk into one of the girls' rooms, but he knows he doesn't have to worry about that when he sees Louis' door still decorated with the sign the two of them had made when they were little. 

_ H&L's ROOM. EVERYBODY ELSE: OUT. _ And then in Harry's writing,  _ PLEASE _ . It hurts stupidly much, the fact that the two of them were so close that this room was seriously considered Harry's, too, and the fact that Louis never took down the sign. It's almost weird that he hasn't; it's been over three years since Harry has stepped foot in here. 

The numbers flood back to zero when Harry opens the door and steps foot into Louis' room. 

With an ice pack pressed against his cheek, Harry looks around the room in awe. The sign on the door might not have changed, but everything else has.  _ Everything. _ Even Louis' bed and dressers are different. The walls are no longer blue and the carpet has been torn out and replaced with glossy wood. Posters still litter the walls but they aren't of Transformers or Batman anymore, they are of bands and TV show Harry has never heard of. 

"Oh my god," he says quietly to himself, can't help it. It's like he's walking through a stranger's bedroom.

He's almost sent into a tunnel of panic as he realizes that he's truly no longer part of Louis' life anymore when he sees it. It's tucked away under Louis' desk and there's papers stacked on top of it, but it's there. It's there. Louis' Harry Box is still there, and it's still decorated with blue hearts and sequins like Harry remembers gluing on. It takes him back down to earth. 

Slowly and quietly, he lowers himself down on Louis' bed. It's squishy and soft and for some reason all Harry can think is that Liam and Louis have fucked here before. Many times, probably. They were fucking here when Harry called for help. It sends his stomach rolling, but he ignores it and lays back, the ice bag crinkling loudly. He doesn’t get to be angry at Louis for being happy. 

He falls asleep after being lulled by Louis' familiar scent, and he's awoken by a loud, harsh sniffle and then a curse. Harry jolts awake, and he struggles to figure out where he is for a moment, and then his eyes are focusing in on Louis in the dark. It's dark, he realizes. Darker than it was at nine, so he must've been asleep for a while. 

"Lou?" His cheek is burning from the now warm ice pack. He sits up, frowning. "Lou, what's wrong?"

"My fucking mother is dead, are you really asking me that?"

"Okay," Harry says slowly. "Dumb question, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"I hate you," Louis whimpers out. His frame is shaking in the dark and he moves to flick on the light. The bruise has turned purple against Louis' jaw, and tears are evident in his eyes. "I hate you so much."

Regret and guilt swirl around Harry's chest. "I know. You probably should. I’m sorry." That’s all he can be. Sorry. He can’t be good enough to change, and he can’t be bad enough to be guiltless. So all he can be is sorry. 

"I don't hate you for leaving," Louis tells him. He shrugs off his blazer and chucks it onto the chair across the room, runs his hands through his already messy hair, and sits gingerly on the bed, right next to Harry. "I hate you because I'm supposed to be grieving and taking care of my siblings but all I can do is think about you. You being here, you being so,  _ so _ close again. You finally being back home." He glares at Harry over his shoulder. "I don't want to be thinking about you all the time."

"I'm sorry,” Harry says again, and no matter how many times he says it, it doesn’t lose its meaning, because it’s still true. 

Louis' eyes soften, and now he just looks tired and defeated. "I'm so in love with you still," he whispers, "it makes me want to die." He laughs a little, shaking his head. "Shouldn't say that to you. It’s a bit insensitive."

"Don't make jokes about that," Harry says quietly. He doesn’t like that Louis feels able to make jokes about that, even if he is probably slightly intoxicated. Harry didn’t smell the booze on his breath until he came closer. 

"Why?"

"Because," Harry says, eyebrows furrowing. "I don't like talking about it."

Louis nods. He nods and nods and nods, and then he's scratching at his stubble. "I'm in love with you, Harry."

"Stop saying that. Please stop saying that." He can't handle that. The guilt is almost unbearable when he lets himself think about it. Louis has a boyfriend, Louis was heartbroken when he left, Harry was Louis' first love and he broke his heart. If Harry had been able to see that Louis was in love with him, he might've been able to escape Helen's grip faster. And that’s terrifying.

"I didn't know it until you left," Louis whispers, like it's a secret. "Didn't realize it 'til then. I had always found you fit and stuff, always felt nervous when I was around you, but in a good way. I'd wanked off to the thought of you more than any person should -- "

"Don't say that," Harry pleads. It makes him feel dirty and used. He hates it.

"Whatever, you know what I mean. I was in love with you. Still am." He laughs again though nothing is funny and lays back, just like Harry had. Harry lays back, too, and Louis continues. "You're the best person I know. You're strong and you're funny and you understand me."

"Louis. . ."

"No, don't." He turns his head so his cheek is pressed against the duvet and Harry keeps his head straight. If he turns, their noses would brush against each other and Harry doesn't want to do that. "I know you don't feel the same way about me. Maybe you could have, I don't know. I think you're too fucked up to even begin to understand how to love someone."

"Thanks," Harry scoffs, surprisingly hurt by that. He doesn’t want to be reminded that he’s got a twisted relationship with love, or that he’s never had a good example of it before. He’s going to be shit at relationships, he knows that. He just doesn’t need Louis rubbing it in.

"Shut up. You're fucked up. Look at your fucking face, Harry. You're fucked in the head. Get used to it." He sighs, closes his eyes. "I'm drunk," he admits slowly. "I'm drunk and I'm in love with you."

"Louis, I mean it. Stop saying that."

"I want to kiss you," Louis whispers, and he sits up a little. He's hovering over Harry and staring at him like he's art; it makes Harry squirm, and not in a good way. "Can I kiss you?"

"No." He can feel his whole body go into panic mode, like when someone asks to kiss him it's a threat or a warning instead of a question. He's never realized how what Helen did to him might affect his relationships, but he's digging his fingertips into his palm at the simple thought of Louis kissing him. 

"Please?"

"No, Louis."

"Why?"

"You have a boyfriend."

"I don't care."

"You should."

Louis finally gives up with a small pout, and Harry releases his nails from his flesh. "Can we cuddle at least? Not in an I-love-you way. Just. . . in an I'm-really-sad-and-the-booze-didn't-dull-it way." He looks incredibly sad for a brief second and then his drunken stare is back and Harry sighs heavily. 

"Of course, Louis." He's about to budge up higher in the bed so they can do this without their legs off the bed, but Louis seems perfectly content with plopping his head onto Harry's chest just like this. He slings his leg around Harry's middle and pulls him closer, his hand coming to cling at Harry's wrist. 

"You're a good friend," Louis tells him after a few quiet minutes. "Or you were, at least. Now you don't answer my texts. But you were a good friend at one point."

"You're a good friend, too."

Again, Harry's not sure how he falls asleep like that, but he does. Louis' scent is now so much stronger next to him, so maybe that's it. He falls asleep hard and fast, and the nightmares come in harder and faster. He's so on edge from it, even in his sleep, that the weight shifting on the bed is enough to jolt him awake. 

He feels out of breath and dizzy when he scrambles off the bed and to his feet, and then stupid and idiotic when he sees Liam staring at him with raised eyebrows. He takes a deep breath and shakes his hands out, tries to collect himself enough to make him seem less guilty of something.

"Bad dream?" Liam asks, sounding amused. He's sitting at the top of Louis' bed, the source of his sudden break in slumber. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine," Harry says quickly. Because it is, and Harry's thankful for Liam waking him up from it. He remembers the hands and the pleas and the screams from his dream, and he's much happier being awaken from that. "Sorry for, like, starting shit earlier. Was stupid of me."

"No, mate." Liam's frowning, staring at Louis longingly as he lays slumped and asleep in the middle of the bed. "I overreacted."

"I hit him. It was stupid."

"It was," Liam says with a nod. "But, like. It was more than that, you know?" He meets Harry's eyes again. Harry feels as though he should be getting something from this silent conversation, but he's not. He doesn't. Liam's going to have to spell it out for him. He does. "I want you to leave."

Oh. Of course Liam does, why wouldn't he? Harry nods, too tired to do much else. "Yeah. Okay."

And he leaves, once again, without giving any thought to Louis. 


	4. chapter four

Harry has a phobia of change, he realizes. He hates it. Maybe it's the loss of control, or the way it makes him feel insignificant. It could be blamed on a number of things, probably, but whichever fault it is, it absolutely sucks. 

College is a big change. Moving away to college is a big change. And he's absolutely bricking it. (In a calm way, though. There's no panic attacks or tempers boiling over, just nerves going a bit haywire. Underneath that layer of fear, there's a thin layer of happiness because he's doing a normal thing that normal people are scared of and he's handling it normally.)

"Are you sure you have everything?" Niall asks as he gets into the car. Gemma's barely awake in the passenger seat and Harry's the same way in the back, but he gathers enough brain cells together to nod. "Good, because we aren't coming back for a forgotten toothbrush."

And then they're off. Harry regrets picking a college so far away. It's a little less than two hours, but it's going to feel like forever while he's trapped in a car for that long. He already misses Belle. She has no idea he's not coming back for another few weeks. It breaks his heart. 

Thankfully, the ride goes smoothly. There's no fighting or crashes or anything dramatic like that. Instead, there's a lot of stupid car games and radio commercials and snores from Gemma. It's nice. It's normal.  _ Harry  _ feels normal. 

Before he knows it and can catch up with it, Niall is telling him not to anything he wouldn't do, and Gemma's saying _ no, seriously, be careful and call us every night to let us know you're safe _ . 

He has a single room because he's not very good with new people and Niall didn't want him to have to deal with that on top of everything else. It's scarily quiet when they leave, so silent it's almost deafening, and no amount of unpacking and music can lessen the intensity of it. He's alone. He's completely alone. 

It feels like an over-due opportunity to find out who he really is, and he'd be stupid not to take advantage of it, but it’s going to be hard. It’s going to be excruciating. But he has to try. He has to. If he doesn’t find some friends here, and some pieces of himself, then he’s going to live the rest of his life alone and broken, and he wants more for himself than that.

The first week of classes is nerve wracking. Harry frets over where to sit and who to sit by and what to wear. He doesn’t want to look weird, or out of place. He wants to be normal. So he tries to pick out clothes that match what other people are wearing, and he tries not to fidget too much. He forces himself to smile at people who smile at him, even though he’s bricking it every time someone so much as walks passed him. 

His professors don’t waste time on any of those first day ‘ice-breakers’ that Harry was panicking about, which he’s beyond appreciative about, even though it means that course work starts on day one. He doesn’t care; he can handle notes and lectures and homework better than he can talking to new people. 

On the Friday of the first week of classes, Harry’s sitting in his English Literature class by himself, texting Niall silently. He got here fifteen minutes early, so people are still slowly piling in. When he chances a look up, he recognizes a few of them from other classes, but he doesn’t know any of them well enough for them to want to sit by him. 

He tries not to let it bother him, but it does. He promised Niall he would try to make friends, and he’s barely talked to anyone all week. Most people don’t look at him twice, and that’s relieving and discouraging all at once. He knows that making friends involves some work on his part, and that he can’t just expect friendships to blossom out of thin air, but he doesn’t know how to do this, so he sits sadly by himself and tries to take his mind off of it. 

He has an over-the-phone appointment with Nancy this afternoon after class, and he’s not exactly looking forward to that. They haven’t had a session over Skype yet, and he’s not sure how it’s going to go. The idea makes him uncomfortable, but he knows finding a brand new therapist by himself is scarier, so he tries to be happy with what he has. But he knows she’s going to want to talk to him about his lack of friends and his degree and how he’s adjusting to living on his own, and he doesn’t want to talk about all that. It’s much easier not talking about any of it. 

Choosing English has his major was an impulsive decision. Niall wanted him to go for something in the realm of history, for some reason, and Gemma didn’t really care what he went into, so he searched up what courses Cambridge offered and English was the first one that he saw. It was literally just that. He told Niall and Gemma that he was actually interested in English, and they seemed slightly unconvinced, but they let him enroll in the courses, so they must not think it’s a terrible idea. 

A new text comes in from Niall, and before Harry has a chance to read it, someone sits beside him. He looks at them nervously, and a blinding, goofy smile flashes at him. 

“Is someone sitting here?” the stranger asks. He’s already got his bag off and on the table in front of them. It’s unzipped and somehow, even though classes only just started, his bag looks messy and unorganized. 

Harry shakes his head. “No. Nobody’s sitting there.”

“Well, I mean, technically, I am now, but.” He shrugs, still grinning, and Harry forces himself to look away from the boy and back at his phone and push the butterflies flapping around in his belly. He shouldn’t be so excited about someone talking to him. He should be panicking, probably, but the hope outweighs anything else, and that’s -- new. And an overreaction, because all this person did was sit by him, but it doesn’t matter. It’s proof that he seems approachable, and that’s what he needs. 

Luke --  _ Luke, _ he likes Harry enough to tell him his name -- talks to him several times during class. 

The first time: “Wait, this is English Lit, right? I don’t want to make a tit out of myself already.” Harry makes a choked noise that was supposed to be a laugh but he was trying too hard not to do anything weird. 

The second time: “I’m Luke.” Harry replies with his name. Luke grins. “Well, Harry, I can already tell you that I’m not going to have any fucking idea of what’s going on in this class for the rest of the term.” Harry laughs again, and this time, it’s less of a choking noise. 

The third time: “I’m hungry. Why is this class two hours long? I want food.”

The fourth and final time. “Goodbye, Harry. It was nice meeting you. Save me a seat by you next week, if you’d like.” Harry rushes out that he will, and that it was nice to meet him as well, and by the time he gets back to his dorm, he cries with how happy he is. 

  
Again: it’s a massive overreaction. It’s just. . . someone  _ chose  _ to sit by him. Someone _ chose _ to talk to him, four times. Someone  _ chose _ to remember his name. And that’s the first sign Harry’s gotten here all week that things might actually work out here. 

  
  


The first few weeks feel like he’s on a date with himself. He has to learn what he likes and doesn’t, what he can handle by himself and what he can’t. He learns what study techniques work best for him, and how to make a useful outline for papers, and in which conditions he focuses in best.

He learns that he’s smart. Like, proper intelligent. In two of his classes already, people turn to him when they don’t understand something. It’s a lot of pressure, and he gets flustered trying to explain things to them, but when they finally understand it because of him, it feels worth it. 

The hardest thing he has to learn is how to stay productive even when his skin feels too tight and he feels numb all over. At home, he could let bad days and bad weeks consume his life, but here, he can’t. Here, if he falls behind, then he falls behind. Nobody will stop to help him back on his feet. He has to rely on himself, and that means that when he feels so sad for no good reason, he has to cheer himself up or ignore it entirely. Usually, he calls Gemma to talk for a few minutes, or he plays music really loudly and lets himself disappear for only a few songs, and then he forces himself to go back to whatever it is he has to be doing.

In the fifth week of school, he can officially say he has made a best friend. 

There are some people he talks to occasionally about school and sometimes other things, but there's nobody but Luke that he talks to every day, all day, about nothing and everything at the same time. Luke is loud and funny and too energetic to figure out when Harry's in a bad mood. He does seem to understand that Harry needs to be eased into certain situations, though, so he usually gives Harry a warning ahead of time when he plans on dragging him to some event on campus or to his dorm. And once, on complete accident, Luke found his antidepressants, and Harry thought  _ this is it, he’s going to think I’m a freak or something now.  _ He didn’t ask any questions about it then, just apologized to Harry for going into the wrong drawer by accident, although since then, every few days Luke texts him  _ ‘are you feeling okay today :)’ _ to check in on him.

Every time,  _ every single time _ , it makes Harry burst with a smile. 

He's been smiling a lot more because of Luke, and he doesn't care that Nancy pointed out, correctly, that Luke is a lot like Louis. Maybe he is, but Harry still adores Louis, and it doesn’t seem like an issue to him that his best mates are similar. 

Luke invites him to a party in the middle of their English lecture, and Harry can feel his face flush at the idea, because he's  _ not _ a party-goer, not at all. Granted, the only parties he's ever been to, his grandma was also there, but being around a lot of intoxicated, sweaty idiots on a Thursday night doesn't seem appealing in the slightest. 

When he initially rejects the offer, Luke drops his pencil on the desk and wraps his arms around Harry's right arm and says he won't let go until Harry agrees to come. Because he's in class and missing extremely vital information, he nods and says sure, because why the hell not, right?

And Harry knows there's going to be a problem, some sort of issue or breakdown or  _ something  _ that'll come up. That's partly why he's never really overcame his anxiety, because is it really anxiety when it's not thinking there's going to be a next time, but  _ knowing _ there's going to be one, and being right about it? He doesn't know. 

But as he Luke throws clothes at him and tells him to get dressed, he knows there's going to be a problem, and when Luke tells him he looks dashing, like a proper prince, he knows there's going to be a problem, and when they arrive at a small house with booming music pouring out of the windows, he definitely knows there's going to be a problem. 

But he tries to enjoy what he can of it before that inevitable problem comes up, and that's new. It's different. Progress, Nancy will call it. 

One drink in (that's all he's having, believe him) and two hours later, he's sweaty and tired and pretty sure he's the only one his age with a decent taste in music. The anxiety around his heart has retreated a bit since he drank whatever Luke poured for him, though not enough to distort anything. Luke pouts, begs him to drink more, but Harry laughs and shoves him away. 

"We have class in the morning, you idiot," he reminds. It probably registers as white-noise in Luke's brain; he's fucking hammered. And that makes Harry antsy, but Luke has never, ever done anything to make Harry too uncomfortable yet, so he tries to trust him. He tries really, really hard. 

"I wanna see what drunk Harry Styles looks like," Luke slurs. "Is that really so bad?"

Harry makes a face. "You're being a bad influence, you know. It’s not even legal for me to drink yet.”

And Luke laughs, loud and abrupt, and before he can formulate a response to that, he's stumbling into Harry and telling him something about his roommate, who apparently annoyed him earlier. Harry doesn’t catch why, because Luke’s mind changes courses and he starts jumping up and down around Harry, probably in protest of Harry’s earlier firm stance on not dancing. 

The thing is, Harry's not sure when it turns into something more than that. One second Luke's laughing loudly in his ear about. . . something, and the next he's winding his arms around Harry's middle, maybe too close, but he doesn't actually mind it too terribly. Somehow, though, from then and now, something changed, and Harry does kind of mind it now. But his shirt's already off and Luke's tongue is half way down his throat, and it feels good, is the thing, it does, but it also kind of feels suffocating and too much. He doesn't exactly want it to stop, not really, but Luke's. . . Luke. Luke is Luke and Luke is his best friend and Luke is also tugging at his belt loops, and Harry feels like an idiot. 

He must've been leading Luke on, somehow. Somehow, someway, Harry has blurred the lines between friendship and more than that, and even though he can't quite come up with a scenario where he's done so, he's sure it's the truth. And he doesn't want to hurt Luke, and he doesn't want to stop (which is so insanely weird, so new, so different), so he doesn't. He lets Luke drag down his skinnies and kiss at his jaw. He lets it all happen, willingly and almost-happily, until everything takes a drastic turn and Harry can't breathe right for some reason. 

But he doesn't want it to end, he doesn't, so he clenches his eyes shut and tugs on Luke's hair, a silent plea to go maybe a bit slower. When Luke doesn't grasp that silent plea, he verbalizes it in a breathless, "go slower, go slower". 

Luke stops all together, eyes hazy when they open and look into Harry's. "You good, Haz?"

He nods, not trusting his own voice. 

Luke nods back and leans his sweaty forehead against Harry's shoulder for a moment to catch his breath. After a second, Luke sits back up, looking at Harry with a little more clarity in his eyes. "You aren't, like, a virgin, right?"

Harry's stomach plunges dangerously. His fingers dig into Luke's bare hips, then stops when he sees him wince. "No," he says slowly. He doesn't fucking understand that question, doesn't like it; being a virgin isn't the only thing that could hold someone back from not wanting to have sex with someone else. Like it's the end-all, be-all. It's not. 

"And you're good with this, yeah?" Luke murmurs, voice muffled from where his lips are meeting Harry's shoulder, and yeah, that feels nice. That feels really nice. Almost nice enough to quiet the panic locked in his heart, but not quite there yet. That panic doesn't get unlocked until Luke's stumbling around a stranger's drawers looking for lube, or at least a condom, and Harry has a brief moment to freak the fuck out and finally give up on the situation. 

He can't quite catch his breath when he sits up, the room spinning around violently. Luke's mumbling something about stupid frat boys and Harry's picking up his shirt off the ground with shaking hands. He can't get it though, can't coax his hands into twisting the shirt right side out, can't fucking do anything right, not even fuck his very fit best friend who he trusts with his whole fucking life. Fuck it all, Harry decides, and his fingers won't fucking work, they won't work, and a small whimper of frustration skips out of his mouth and fuck, he hears the hesitation in Luke's moments before his words. 

"Haz? Hey, what are you doing?" And he sounds genuinely concerned, actually confused, and Harry trusts him, he trusts him, he trusts him, he trusts -- "Are you crying?"

Yeah, he is. Maybe he has been for a while, he can't remember. "I need to go," he manages to choke out, "study, I have to study, I have to -- " but he stops because this goddamn fucking shirt he'll burn when he gets out of here won't fucking listen to his fingers and he's nearly about to rip it into pieces when Luke comes towards him. 

"Calm down, mate, it's okay," he says softly, and that's Luke, soft. Soft and lovable and trustworthy,  _ trustworthy _ , so why can't Harry just enjoy having sex with him?  _ Why?  _ He's a teenager, a teenager who's at univeristy and a desire to have sex with a cute boy, a teenager who is a human who's primal instinct is to fuck, and he can't do it. He can't do fucking anything, fucking _ fuck _ . "Here, let me help," Luke suggests gently. Harry lets him take the shirt from his shaking fingertips and flips it so it's right side out. He hands back to Harry, and he takes it graciously and slips it on over his shoulders. 

With him being covered, just a little bit, he feels a little better. He's still naked from the waist down and he's still crying and Luke looks like he's about to explode with confusion, but a little better. He manages to pull on his pants and his skinnies and his shoes, forgetting the socks entirely, before Luke reaches out to try and take his arm. Harry flinches, badly. Worryingly. Luke’s going to worry about him now, and that devastates Harry. 

"I'm so sorry," Luke whispers. "Harry, I -- I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry, I'm -- was I not going slow enough, was I -- "

"I just need to go," Harry interrupts, standing quick because he wants to leave. He's embarrassed and sad and confused and he just wants to leave. 

Luke lets him go, thank God. He doesn't follow him out either; Harry's not sure what he does, to be honest. If he joins the party again or if he goes home afterwards. But Harry flees the scene as fast as he possibly can, and even when he's in the safe, warm shelter of his dorm, of his bed, of his blankets, he feels exposed and vulnerable and scared. 

He sleeps in the bathroom. It's the only space big enough in his room that has a lock.

The next day, Harry feels so, so incredibly stupid. Like, so fucking stupid. So stupid he doesn't go to class and stays inside his dorm all day thinking why the fuck he reacted that why and how the hell he's going to explain it to Luke. He had a fresh start here and he fucking ruined it. He ruins everything. Now the past has fingerprints on the present and he hates himself for it. 

He fears he's ruined everything and more. All of his progress feels shot down; he had made a friend and there's a very good possibility he ruined that. And now he's missing a test that is worth too much of his grade in one class and a lecture in his other class because the idea of getting out of bed (which he eventually dragged himself into) seems so scary and not worth it, so he doesn't. He stays swamped in his blankets and maybe cries a little, but he doesn't want to talk about that because it's the first time he's cried like this in his dorm and he hates it. 

Niall calls around noon, and Harry answers because he's so sad and so lonely and he's thought about packing his bags and walking back to London himself. Niall talks him down, though, thankfully. After Harry explains everything with clenched eyes and shaky breaths, Niall tells him to breathe, that everything is okay, and he can tell Luke as little or as much as he wants to. 

So Harry decides he's going to ignore what happened last night, and if Luke pokes and prods too much, then he's going to tell him (kindly) to fuck off and that's that. 

But since Luke is Luke and maybe too nice for his well-being, he doesn't bring it up. At five p.m. when lecture ends, a slew of pictures of the notes comes through Harry's phone along with a simple text of  _ if you don't understand something, ask me but i probably won't know either. that one girl savanna seemed to know what she was doing.  _

Harry takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and responds with a short  _ thank you.  _

_ no biggie. talked to professor m for u and told him u didn't feel well and that's why u weren't there for the test. he says you have to make it up tomorrow or you get a zero. i can help u study _

And Harry can hear the desperation, even through text. Luke is scrambling to make things right with Harry and he doesn't even know what he did wrong, he doesn't even know that he didn't do  _ anything  _ wrong. Harry wants to ignore it all together and let Luke suffer, but it seems cruel so he sits up in bed and types something out quickly and presses send before he can go back on it. 

_ im not mad at you. you didn't do anything wrong. just lets not talk about it. i'm fine. _

He gets a call from Luke so quickly after that, Harry's pretty sure he only read the first sentence, but it's okay because Harry answers and they don't talk about it, and that's that. 

Somehow, some way, Luke convinces Harry to go to another party. This time while helping Harry pick out clothes, Luke subtly slips in the fact that they're going as mates and they're going to do mate things like get pissed and talk to girls, even if both of them are gay.  _ "That's how college works, Styles, I don't make the rules.”  _

And even though last time was a complete shitshow, Harry manages to enjoy himself again. He doesn't have anything to drink, and Luke doesn't press him about it this time. Overall, he seems more withdrawn from Harry, but not in a bad way. Just. . . he's trying to make sure he doesn't make Harry uncomfortable again. Harry appreciates it. 

There becomes a point in the night where everyone is drunk and sloppily dancing with one another. Luke's tipsy, but not drunk, and when he asks Harry if he wants to dance, Harry shakes his head firmly. There's too many people, too many strangers' bodies that'd be rubbing up against his own.

Luke pouts a little. "Please?"

"I don't think so, mate, but you go ahead." He motions towards the crowd of people in front of them, and there's clearly temptation in Luke's eyes, so Harry nudges him forward. "Seriously, go. I don't mind. I'll go to the balcony and clear my head a bit."

"Are you alright?" Luke asks, quiet. It's obvious he doesn't know if he should be asking or not.

Harry nods and stands, giving Luke a small smile. "Yeah. Just don't like crowds that much, but I'm fine. Seriously." And then, as an attempted joke, he adds, "I can't hide it when I'm uncomfortable, as you got to witness."

Luke doesn't laugh. Instead, his face falls and he cringes. "Harry, I'm  _ so  _ sorry -- "

"Don't apologize," he insists, shaking his head. "Seriously. You didn't do anything wrong."

"You  _ freaked out _ . You  _ ran _ ."

"Because I have issues that I still don't have sorted out," Harry says honestly. "And they have nothing to do with you, and I didn't mean to bring it up again to make you feel guilty."

Luke's concern grows clearer. "What kind of issues?"

"We're at a party, Luke," Harry reminds, motioning to everyone else. "This is not a party conversation. Now, you go and dance with a bunch of sweaty third years who have given up on their degree, and I'm gonna go outside."

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

Harry nods. "Positive."

Before Luke can ask him a hundred more times, Harry pushes him again, harder this time, so Luke clashes against someone's back. He blushes immediately, and the bloke he bumped into turns around. For a moment, Harry's afraid he's got Luke into some trouble, but the guy seems too drunk to mind because he just starts grinding back into Luke. 

Harry turns away, that fresh of breath air seeming more and more desirable. 

The balcony is surprisingly not packed. There's only three people out there, and he’s glad. He just wants to sit off to the side, by himself, and try to get his head on straight. He’s fine, he is, it’s just -- his brain is doing that thing where everything is jumbling together for no reason, and he wants it to stop doing that before it turns into something worse. 

He opens the door, and immediately, a girl turns around to look at him. "No drunks!" she says, sounding exasperated. 

Harry goes red. "I'm not drunk."

"Oh," she says, and then shrugs. "Okay. Well, you can sit down then."

Harry goes to sit in the only open chair left when someone says, "We're smoking out here, so if you don't like that, shoo." 

Immediately, Harry recognizes the voice -- the scratch of it, the pitch of it, the attitude, everything -- and he knows it's Louis, even though he's not turned around and has a beanie tucked over his head. Harry freezes, unsure of what to do or say. 

Before he can make a decision, Louis' turning his head a bit and saying, "Sit down, Harry. I'm just messing with you."

Harry sits, suddenly feeling numb and hot all over. Louis' sitting in between a guy and the girl, and Harry sits beside the guy. He scoots his chair away slightly instinctively, and none of them say anything for a long moment. It's almost like the other two know who Harry is and they've cornered him here, but Harry tries to be logical about this and he reasons that they've most likely just met one another.

His mind is completely blank as he stares at the brick ledge. He can't think about this or he'll panic, and he can't panic here. Not in front of Louis, and not at a party. He just says perfectly still, hoping Louis just leaves. 

"Will you two fuck off for a sec?" Louis asks, and Harry jolts, not having expected him to talk. He keeps his head down and his arms over his chest, and doesn't look up as the others stand and leave, the girl muttering something about Louis keeping out the drunks. 

The door slides shut, and then it's just them. Harry closes his eyes briefly before swallowing and reopening them. He can handle this. It's just Louis. 

"Want one?" Louis says, offering him a cigarette. Because Harry can't think straight around the panic clutching at his heart, he grabs one out of the pack. In reality, he doesn't know how to smoke. He's not even sure if he could light it. 

Louis scoffs and grabs the cigarette out of Harry's fingers roughly. "I was kidding, Jesus. You better not've started smoking. My mum would kill you."

"I haven't," Harry says weakly, the mention of Jay making him feel even more lightheaded. 

"Then why would you take one?"

Harry takes a deep breath in and out before answering. He can't have a panic attack in front of Louis -- he won't let himself. "I don't know. I'm just. . . stressed, I guess."

"About?"

"You. You being here."

"Please," Louis laughs, unkindly. He stubs out his cigarette against the ground before lifting his legs and setting them on the ledge, crossing them at the ankle. "You seriously didn't look you'd ever run into me here?"

He sounds annoyed. Harry takes another deep breath. 

"Louis, I don't -- I didn't even know you went here."

"I've known I wanted to go to Cambridge since I was fourteen," Louis snaps, and even though Harry won't look at him, he knows he's glaring. "Remember? I went to their college visit at school, and then you fucking bawled when I told you about it, 'cause you didn't want me to go away." He huffs out a breath. "Ironic, isn't it."

"You're mad," Harry points out, not knowing what else to say. He feels so, so lightheaded. He doesn't remember that happening, although he wouldn't be surprised if he subconsciously picked Cambridge because of Louis. Because of how safe Louis used to make him feel. 

"Oh, I'm livid. You leaving without saying goodbye to me last time was real fucking classy."

Harry tries to take a deep breath, but it fails in his lungs, and he can feel the wall of panic thicken around his heart. He takes another breath, and then another, until he can get a steady one out. He folds his hands together before calmly saying, "I understand that was wrong of me, but you're kind of freaking me out, so if you could just, like -- calm down. Please. I -- I want to talk to you, but I can't if you're -- "

"What the fuck happened to you, Harry?" 

He sounds genuinely curious, like he's tried over and over again to work it out and he just can't. 

Harry closes his eyes, still looking down. "Louis, please, just -- "

"You're so different. You're so, like. Just different."

Harry doesn't say anything, and neither does Louis for a long, long time. At least five minutes of silence pass between them, and Harry spends that time concentrating on staying calm. 

Finally, Louis says, "Luke's a good lad. I'm glad you have him."

The change of conversation makes Harry falter, and he quickly re-focuses himself. "Yeah. Yeah, um. He is. I didn't know you two knew each other."

Louis shrugs. "He's my roommate's mate. I didn't even know he knew you, or that you were even here on campus, until he asked about you."

He thought Louis was trying to make nice, but the more and more he talks, the more and more Harry feels like he's being cornered again. "Why'd he ask about me?"

"He was worried about you. Told me that you completely freaked out when he tried to hook up with you, and he wanted to know if he knew what was up with that." He makes a sarcastic noise, one that makes Harry lose his breath. "Wish I did know what was up with that."

"Aren't you sick of asking by now?" Harry says, suddenly angry. He's still petrified, but the anger he feels wins right now. "I don't want to talk about it. Not now, not when you asked me when you were at my flat, not when you asked me at your mum's funeral. I don't want to fucking talking about it. You -- God, Louis, if you would just believe me when I said that you'd feel like such a prick for being so pushy about this if you knew what happened. You'd -- you would feel so bad."

Louis hums. "I see you still are good at self-pity."

"Ask Niall about it then," Harry snaps, so fed up with Louis' bullshit. He doesn't even care what he's saying at this point; he just wants Louis to stop dogging him about this every time they cross paths. "I'll tell him he can tell you, you can call him tomorrow, and then you'll know, okay, but I'm not telling you myself because it makes me so fucking sick to think about, and I don't -- I've asked you so many times to just let it be, but you keep pushing and pushing and pushing, so fine, if you really want to know -- "

"Okay," Louis interrupts, reaching over to grab Harry's wrist, which just makes him squirm his arm out of Louis' grasp. "I'm sorry. I'm -- I've been trying to tell myself ever since I saw you at your flat that clearly something bigger was going on that I didn't know about, but after my mum's funeral, after you just left like that. . . I don't know. Seeing you just felt like someone jabbing at a huge bruise on my arse."

Harry nods a few times, trying to understand that. That seems fair. "Liam told me to leave, though,” he admits quietly. He’s not trying to get Liam in trouble, but it’s the truth, and he wants to make Louis understand. “I probably would've left anyway, if I'm being honest, but. Liam told me to go.

He finally looks at Louis, who shrugs like that doesn't exactly surprise him. He's got a lot more stubble than he did the last time Harry saw him; at this point, it might be more appropriate to call it a beard. 

"Liam and I broke up, like, a month after my mum died, and I haven't talked to him much since, so I think it'd be inappropriate to call him up and yell at him for that."

Harry frowns. "Why'd you two split?"

"'Cause he was living in bloody America, and I wanted him with me." Louis' quiet for a moment before he murmurs, "Kind of felt like everyone was just leaving me again, like when I was a kid. Except dealing with step-dads cycling in and out is a lot easier than handling your best friend abandoning you, and then your boyfriend moving, and then your mum dying. That one's a bit more tricky."

"I'm  _ sorry, _ " Harry says, his agitation sky-rocketing again. 

Louis nods once. "I believe you. I don't want to, but I do."

For the first time since everything happened, it feels like they're standing on level ground. 

"What are you studying here, then?" Louis asks, completely changing the topic. He pulls his pack of cigarettes again and lights one. 

Harry laughs quietly. It doesn’t sound or feel natural, but he doesn’t dwell on that. "No fucking idea. I declared English as my major, but, like. I'm not all that interested in it, and I'm not as smart as everyone else in my lectures -- "

"Hey," Louis chides. "You were smart as fuck in school. I doubt that's changed much."

"It has," Harry argues, and it's the truth. "I'm caught up with everyone in math and science and history, but, like, English. . . I don't know what happened. Apparently home school isn't great at teaching English, 'cause I'm not doing as well as everyone else.”

"How are your marks?"

"Decent," Harry says, shrugging. It’s not like he’s doing bad, or anything close to it. He just wishes he was doing better. "But I'm doing better in my science classes, and I think I'm gonna switch to something in that field. I just don't know what yet."

Louis nods. "Well, you have a few more months until it really matters."

"Yeah." Harry's been told that by loads of people. "What are you studying? I don't think I asked you last time. . . "

Louis snorts, and stubs out his cigarette again. He barely smoked it; Harry's beginning to think it's a nervous tick, or something. "You were a bit preoccupied. But I'm studying law, which, like. No surprise there."

It makes Harry grin proudly. "Good on you, mate. Are you focusing more on criminal or civil?"

"Criminal, I think," Louis tells him. "I'm interning at a divorce law firm now, and I feel like fuckin' Judge Judy."

Harry laughs quietly at that, despite not being able to picture Louis Tomlinson being in a responsible law firm. Not that Louis wasn't a good student, when he wanted to be, or that he couldn't be responsible, it's just. . . Louis is loud and bright and sarcastic. He can't imagine that doing well in a law firm. He'd always envisioned Louis being a snarky police officer or detective, but he's still proud of Louis nonetheless. There's no way Harry could get through law school. 

Louis shifts so his legs are no longer on the ledge, and he rests his elbows on his knees. He bites on his bottom lip for a few seconds before releasing it again and turning to Harry. "Can I ask just one more question?"

An icy dread pools in Harry's stomach, but he nods and looks down at his hands in his lap. "I suppose."

"Have you ever visited your mum in prison?"

Harry shakes his head. He doesn't want Louis thinking he's some monster, so he clarifies vaguely. "I don't even know if I'm allowed to, like. . . like, without lawyers and stuff." He's never wanted to actually go visit his mother, not even when she was first taken away, so he's never thought to ask if he even could or not. He figures that, with him being her victim and all, it might not be so easy to just go and see her, but he doesn’t know that for certain. 

It's clear Louis wants to ask more about that, but he doesn't, thankfully. He does, however, ask Harry if he can ask another question, and Harry sighs quietly. "I'm not, like, opposed to you asking things. I. . . not personal stuff, obviously, but, like. That was a fair question. I can handle small things like that."

"How long is she in prison for? I mean, I've looked it up, and embezzlement sentences can vary dramatically. I've always wondered how long."

He swallows thickly and takes a deep breath before replying. He didn't want to know that for the longest time, but when he was almost sixteen he finally asked Gemma and she told him. "Fourteen years. She can try to get out on good behavior after ten."

"And will you see her once she's out?" It sounds like he doesn't even mean to say it, and he quickly backtracks. "Sorry, sorry, you don't have to answer that if you don't want to."

Harry does anyway. He feels like he owes Louis, somehow. "No. I won't. Gemma's not going to, either."

"Okay," Louis murmurs. He leans back in his chair and nods. "Okay."

Louis and Harry talk out on the balcony for another hour or so, mostly just spending the time filling in the missing gaps they have between them. It's genuinely a nice time, and it relaxes Harry. He feels comfortable around Louis. Light, almost. His anxiety is still there -- it never really goes away -- but Louis makes it's glow dimmer. 

Apparently, Lottie's trying to make a name for herself in the makeup industry, which requires a suspicious amount of trips to Bali and other fancy places. His other sisters are still in school, which blows Harry's mind a little. It feels like they should be so much older by now. The last three years have felt like an eternity. 

He talks for a long while, about his family and friends and his goals, and then when the focus shifts on Harry, Harry realizes he still hasn't made much of a life for himself. He talks about Luke a little, and then about his courses. He tells Louis what Gemma and Niall are up to, but it's not much more than work. He even, embarrassingly, tells Louis about his therapist. He doesn't know what else to talk about. He isn't anybody. Not yet. 

"And you're takin' your meds still, right?" Louis asked quietly, picking at his pants, another cigarette in his hand. 

Harry nodded. "Every night."

"Good. 'Cause, like. You got scary then, H. I don't ever want to see you like that again."

Their quiet atmosphere gets destroyed when Luke comes bumbling out onto the balcony. He's wasted beyond belief by now, and even though Harry's hurt that Luke went and told his business to Louis without his permission, he doesn't want him tripping off the balcony, so he shoos him back inside and turns to Louis. 

"I gotta get going soon, too," Louis says, shrugging. "It's alright. Walk him home."

Harry nods. "I will. It was nice seeing you, though. Like, actually."

"You too, Haz."

Harry turns to go back inside, but before he can, Louis grabs his elbow. "Hey, wait. How far of a walk is it?"

"Like, a little less than ten minutes, I think. My dorm's in a different building than his, though."

Louis frowns. "I don't like you walking alone on campus."

"I'm taller and broader than you," Harry points out, a little amused. "You're way more likely to get jumped than I am."

"And I am way more likely to be able to defend myself," Louis argues. He stands and pulls his beanie over his ears more. "Come on. Luke lives in my building, so we'll walk you home and then I'll take him back."

Harry nods once, not really processing what Louis said. His brain is still stuck on the implication that Harry is defenseless. He tries to tell himself that Louis is referring to being unable to fight back against a violent person, and nothing else, but he can't help but make the connection anyway. Maybe Louis wouldn't have let himself be a victim for seven years straight. Maybe he wouldn't have been as weak as Harry, and would've sought out help. 

When he gets back to his dorm, Louis smiles at him softly before telling him goodnight and disappearing down the hall with Luke leaning into him. Harry knows he's not going to be able to sleep, not with this self-doubt spiraling in his head, so he gets ready for bed and calls Niall.

It's two o'clock in the morning, so by default, Niall's alarmed. "Hey, bud. What's up? Can't sleep?"

"If I would have realized she was doing something wrong sooner, I would be so much better off right now."

Niall says nothing, and then sighs. There's some shuffling and a muffled conversation before turning his attention back to Harry. Harry imagines him getting out of bed and going into the kitchen, or maybe out in the living room. He wonders if Belle follows him. "You were young, Haz. You couldn't have known."

"But if I did," Harry insists. "If I -- even if I would have realized a year earlier, or -- or if we were found out sooner. I would be so much less traumatized than I am now."

"I mean, yeah. Maybe you're right. But that didn't happen, alright? So try not to think about it. Just think about today."

Today was okay. Today he had class and understood the material, and then he was to a party with his new best mate and caught up with Louis. But today he also found out that Luke betrayed his trust, and he's still not sure what to do with that. 

"Luke told Louis that I panicked when he came onto me, and he didn't even know that we knew each other," Harry tells him. It almost surprises him how hurt he is by it, and it shouldn't. He's hurt by everything. 

"Wait -- Louis? Am I missing something?"

Harry huffs quietly. "Louis goes here. And we bumped into each other today, and we started talking, and he mentioned that Luke brought me up."

"Oh. Oh, that's. . ."

"If I had confided in Luke and told him the truth about what happened to me, he might've told Louis." He swallows thickly and ignores the tears pricking his eyes. "I don't feel like I can trust him anymore. I still -- like, I'm not going to be mad at him. He was hurt and trying to figure out what he did wrong, but I don't think I can trust him anymore."

"I don't know if that's fair, H," Niall murmurs. He sounds tired. He probably has to get up for work in three hours. "You don't trust people easily, and yet you managed to trust him. Maybe think about that before you make any rash decisions, yeah? He's still your best mate."

"I suppose," Harry mumbles, although he doesn't really agree. He does, on the surface level, but he knows himself and knows he isn't capable of being mature enough to let things go like that. He just goes along with it because Niall is going to be exhausted tomorrow if he doesn't go back to bed soon. 

Harry gets off the phone and as he goes to sleep, he forces himself to focus on the good of tonight. He has to stop getting so caught up in the negative things. 

The next day, Harry's studying his course material for a test coming up when there's a knock on the door. He frowns, confused, and flips his phone over to see if Luke got out of class early or something. Nothing. He considers ignoring it, but if it's his room adviser, he doesn't want to look rude. He gets out of bed and opens the door, and Louis' standing there, texting on his phone. 

Before Harry can ask, Louis explains. "I knew if I texted you and asked if you wanted to hang out, you'd be dodgy about it and my heart can't take that, and you're too nice to reject me to my face, so. Hi. I'm here. And was wondering if you wanted to watch a movie on my laptop or something."

"I wouldn't have said no if you had asked," Harry says quietly. Maybe he would have, he doesn't know, but he doesn't like Louis thinking that about him. Louis used to think the world of Harry; he wants to get back to that. 

He wants so badly to finally get back to that. He misses Louis. 

They get situated on Harry's bed, Harry keeping a safe distance between them. It's not even so much that being close to Louis makes him uncomfortable, it's just. He hasn't forgotten that Louis told him he was in love with him all those years ago, and he doesn't want to give Louis any misleading signs. 

Louis gets his laptop out of his bag, and he goes to Netflix. They're silent as Louis picks a movie --  _ Step Brothers _ \-- and for the first half hour of the movie. Abruptly, Louis pauses the movie and turns to Harry. 

"I'm not letting you get away from me this time around," he says, sounding very serious. He looks determined as all hell, like he'll bully Harry into being his friend again if that's what it takes. "You promised to call me after you attempted suicide, and you never did. I didn't push it because I knew you were hurting. And then the same thing with when I visited your flat. And when you left without saying goodbye at my house, I didn't call you because I was hurt. But I'm serious. This time around, you're going to have to move a lot farther away if you want to shake me off."

Harry looks away from Louis' intense gaze and back at the paused screen. "Okay. I -- I mean, like. I don't want to shut you out this time. I want you back in my life."

And it’s true. It’s so, so true. Every time he sees Louis, he doesn’t understand how he got so far from his best friend, and yet he still manages to fuck it up again. He wants Louis back. He’s always wanted him back, but this time, he’s not going to let himself screw things up again. He’s healed some; maybe he’s finally in the right headspace not to hurt Louis. They used to be inseparable -- playing footy in the backyard, watching scary movies late at night, sharing secrets and stories and hand jobs, that one time. He hopes, for both of their sakes, he doesn’t fuck it up again. That he’s finally, finally matured some. Enough for them to be in each other’s lives again. 

Louis smiles gently. He looks relieved. "Are you sure you're ready for that? Because I understood what you meant when you said that you didn't have the energy to think about me. But are you. . . Are you ready, this time?"

"I think so. I mean, I hope so, anyway."

"Can I hug you?"

Harry nods and reaches over first. He sits up enough so he can wrap his arms around Louis' neck. "You don't have to ask that," Harry whispers, just as Louis squeezes his middle. 

They stay like that for about a minute, and then Louis pulls away, taking his warmth with him. He smiles at Louis, a little sad, for some reason, and then he reaches down to grab Harry's arm. "And you don't get to do this again, okay?" he says, running his fingers gently over Harry's scar there. It makes Harry shudder. 

"I know."

"No, I'm serious. I didn't say it before, and I don't know why I didn't, but you can't ever think that's an option again. You can't, because it's not."

Harry doesn't say anything to that, just looks at how gentle Louis' holding his wrist. The scar is ugly and thick, and after all this time, it still looks agitated. Suicide seemed like a very real option back then. 

"Harry. I need you to promise me that you'll tell someone if you ever think about that again, even if it's just in passing thought. It doesn't even have to be me, if you don't want it to be. Just someone. Please."

"Okay," Harry agrees, nodding firmly. He's pretty sure he'll never get back to that point, but Louis doesn't seem to be so sure of that, and Harry doesn’t want him being afraid of that. "Okay, Louis. I promise."

He nods, brushes his finger across the scar again, and fits his fingers around Harry's wrist. His fingers are too small to fit all the way around, which makes Harry's stomach flip fondly. Louis lays back down, his hand still on Harry's wrist, and turns the movie back on. 

It becomes a relatively steady routine, Louis coming over. Most of the time, announced, but sometimes he doesn't text Harry in advance and just pops over after class. 

It's startling how quick they go back to being so close. Harry thought it'd take a long time; some time for the ice between them to thaw, some more time for them to relearn each other, and then time to get their schedules matched-up. But it wasn't that complicated. And after a few weeks, Harry's realizes that it wasn't complicated because Louis wanted to see him, and had made time for him. That’s what you do for the people you love. It doesn’t have to be difficult.

Sometimes Luke comes over and hangs out with them, but usually they're just alone. When Luke is there, however, the atmosphere shifts a bit. Louis' not as gentle with Harry, and he's a bit more guarded. They still have fun together, though. 

There was a time, a week or two ago, when Louis was over for a few hours. It was getting late, and Harry wanted to go to bed. He wasn’t going to kick Louis out -- if anything, he was going to let him stay the night in his dorm. They were just watching movies, so Harry didn’t think Louis would mind if he said he was going to get to bed soon. 

Just before he was about to speak, Louis whispered very,  _ very _ softly, “I miss my mum so much, Harry,” and immediately, Harry knew he wasn’t going to go to bed for hours, that he had to be there for Louis. 

He gathered Louis up in his arms as soon as the first tear slid down Louis’ cheek. He hugged him tightly and stroked at his hair, and he listened quietly as Louis talked. He talked for a while, about his mum and his siblings and how everything is so different now. It startled Harry when the topic shifted to him. 

“And I’m sorry for not telling you that she was sick,” Louis cried, his face tucked right up against Harry’s heart. The bottom of Harry’s shirt was twisted in Louis’ hands, and it caused it to lift up a bit, but Harry ignored it. “I talked to Niall at the funeral, and he said you were devastated that I hadn’t told you. I just didn’t want to hurt you more.”

Harry squeezed him harder. “Lou, it’s okay.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you more,” Louis repeated, and his voice was high and airy, and Harry shushed him, squeezing him as hard as he could. 

Afterwards, when Louis stopped crying and calmed down, Harry still held him. He wouldn’t let go. 

Other than that time, things between Louis and Harry have been light and happy. 

Niall comes to visit him on campus one weekend. Gemma wanted to come with, but someone had to watch the dog, and they didn't feel comfortable with both of them not working for three days. So, it's just Niall who comes, and Harry doesn't realize how much he's missed him until he is near tears at the sight of him. Harry had come home for a weekend a little over a month ago, but a month is too long. 

When Niall grins and comes over to him, hugging him tightly, Harry doesn't want to let go of him. He does, eventually, and Niall laughs sadly at him when he sees Harry wiping away tears. 

"I miss you guys," Harry croaks, still wiping at his eyes. He sits on the edge of his bed and exhales shakily. "I just wish, like. . . I didn't get along with Gemma for the longest time, and we were finally starting to respect each other again, and then I left. If I left hating her still, it would be a lot easier."

"But you're doing so well," Niall says. "Genuinely. Your sister and I wholeheartedly thought we'd have to move you back home and pick up the pieces." He smiles proudly at Harry as he sits on the bed next to him. He pats at Harry's shoulder. "And now it's almost the holidays. You're almost done with your first semester. And that's pretty fucking incredible, H."

Harry shrugs. He knows it's good, for him, but everyone else has to go to uni everyday, and they don't get called incredible. It just feels a little cheap in comparison. He's not doing anything all that special.

"And you're still taking your meds?" Niall asks, his hand still on Harry's shoulder. 

Harry frowns at him. "Yes. Of course." When Louis asks him, it feels less like he’s doubting Harry and more like he’s just making sure. 

"Just asking. You know I have to ask. And they aren't giving you any trouble?"

"I have some trouble staying focused, sometimes," Harry mumbles, after a second of thought. "But, like. I don't think that's to do with my meds. Just think it's because my anxiety." He shrugs; it's nothing that bothers him too much. When he stops being able to focus, he takes a break and gets back to work after a few minutes. It's fine.

"Okay, good. And Skyping Nancy every weekend is still going fine?"

"Yeah. It's a bit weird, but, like. I've gotten used to it."

Niall nods, and moves on to start chatting about work and his parents as he unpacks some of his things. It's six o'clock on a Friday, and Niall usually goes to sleep around ten, so he busies himself by making himself up a bed on the floor. Harry would offer that they share his bed, but he knows where Niall's lines stand every since he did that stupid, stupid thing. 

Nothing quite makes the self-hatred he occasionally carries for himself burn brighter than remembering that. 

"Oh, hey," Niall says, once he's fluffed his pillow. He shuffles through his bag before pulling out a few things Harry asked him to bring. "Here."

Harry takes them. He had asked Niall to bring his old journals with him, because Harry's decided that he needs to tell Louis sometime in the next few months, and he was wondering if it'd be easier if he just showed Louis some journal entries that he wrote about it. He'll have to look through them and see if any of them spell it out well enough. He doesn’t have any one particular passage in mind, so he’ll have to sort through them. 

He also had Niall bring some more clothes up, and Harry tosses those to the side while he tucks his journals in his nightstand. 

"Any reason you want those?" Niall asks, and he's got that concerned tone in his voice. It never really leaves. 

Harry shrugs. "I've got to tell Louis eventually."

"No, you don't." His voice is sharp and serious. "You don't have to tell him anything you don't want to, and if he's pushing you about it still, I'll talk to him and -- "

"No, no, it's not like that. I. . . I think I want to tell him. Or, like. I think I need to, for his sake."

Telling Louis about everything is something he has to do; not for Louis, but for himself. And for Louis. . . It’s like, it’s for them. He needs to tell Louis if he wants their friendship to be as strong as it used to be. Louis is still hurt by Harry leaving, even if he doesn’t talk about it anymore, and he won’t stop hurting until Harry tells him. 

He’s not pretending that he’s not scared shitless. Telling Louis is terrifying. Louis might think he’s lying, or that he’s disgusting. Every mean thing Gemma has ever spit at him about that foods back into Harry’s head, and he can picture Louis saying every single one of them to Harry, and he can’t stand it. 

But it doesn’t matter. He can’t be selfish. He has to tell Louis. 

Niall nods once. "Okay. If you think you're ready, go for it. But don't feel pressured."

"I think I'll tell him after we get back from Christmas break," Harry murmurs, suddenly extremely nervous. "Or. . . or maybe not that soon. I don't know." He scratches a phantom itch on his calf and crosses his legs. "I haven't ever had to figure out telling someone that, you know? I mean, in the beginning, I told a few doctors, but I don't even remember that. And the trial, like. My brain's just blocked all that out."

All of that is a blur. After the day she was arrested, it’s like there’s a black hole. He remembers vaguely sitting on the witness stand and feeling faint, and then it flashes to a detective telling him that he did a good job, and then a doctor hugging him as he cried. That’s all that he remembers from the doctors and police. 

"You were pretty fucking traumatized," Niall says. "I'm not surprised you don't remember any of that."

"And I've told two therapists," Harry continues. "But they don't really count. So, like. I've never actually told anyone what happened to me. And I don't know the right way to do it."

"There is no right way," Niall says quietly. He stands and sits back on the edge of the bed with Harry. "But I do think there's right people, you know? Louis' a right person. He'll try to react in a way that won't hurt you. . . once he's digested it, I mean. You've got to understand that he might get angry when you tell him. Maybe he'll be in denial, or something, I don't know him enough to guess. But once he's sorted it out in his own head the best he can, he'll try and be there for you. And I think that's all you can really hope for."

Harry nods and lies back in his bed. His stomach churns, and he tries to work out if it's from hunger or anxiety. Both, probably. He hasn't eaten anything since noon. He'll have to bring Niall to the dining hall with him, show him around a bit. 

"He's going to be so mad at himself when I tell him," Harry whispers, imagining the way Louis will tear into himself. He’s going to feel responsible, and like he should’ve done more. "I think that's going to be the hardest part for me, because I know what it's like to blame yourself for what she did. You never get over it. I mean, I'm still not over it. I still blame myself, sometimes. And I don't want to put him through that."

"I understand that, Haz, I do, but if you genuinely feel like this is something you need to do, don't worry about him. Stop thinking about everyone else and try to put yourself first for once. Please."

Harry snorts quietly. He’s been selfish for the majority of his life. "Okay."

"And none of it was your fault," Niall murmurs. "None a single goddamn moment of it."

"I know," Harry says, because his head is clear enough right now to understand that. "I know."

Louis and Luke meet up with Niall and Harry at the dining hall later that day. When Louis approaches the table, Niall turns to Harry in quiet surprise. 

"I'm still not used to seeing him all grown up."

It makes Harry smile gently. "Me neither."

Louis and Niall hug, while Luke gives him a strong handshake. They sit down across from them, and Harry's scared it's going to be awkward, but Louis immediately starts talking about how his professor is a fuckhead, and that, at his firm, there's this couple that are genuinely getting a divorce because the husband doesn't like how the wife cooks, and then he's talking about how Phoebe has a boyfriend and he looks like a little punk. 

"I'm not kidding," Louis says, eyes wide at the way they all give him a look. "He's, like, eleven and he has a  _ nose _ piercing. And he captions his Instagram pictures with, like, rap music, and he uses the devil emoji way too much, and -- "

"And he's eleven," Harry interrupts, grinning at the way Louis' mouth flies shut. "They'll break up in a week."

"It's already been two," Louis argues. 

Luke snorts. "Oh, so it's serious, then."

Louis flicks a french fry at him, and Niall just watches, looking both amused and confused. 

During the holidays, Harry comes back home. It jostles him, being back at the flat. His routine and day-to-day life changes drastically, and he has a bit of a hard time getting adjusted to it. Which is dumb, because he's missed home so badly, and now that he's here, he wants to go back to uni. 

"You just like your routines, like things staying the same," Gemma tells him, rubbing at his back. He's sprawled out on the couch where they are watching Christmas movies together, and he had gotten so jittery that she's convinced it was an anxiety attack. He’s almost positive it wasn’t, even if he did get hot all over. 

"I feel bad, like. I'm happy to be home, but my head's all out of sorts, and I feel like I'm being annoying." He went to bed at eight o'clock last night because he was so goddamn bored that he couldn't handle it anymore. He never had a chance to be bored during university, so he's not used to it. He doesn’t understand how he was so okay with this before he left, and that makes him a little proud of himself. 

"You're fine, promise." She sits up and pats at his leg. Belle huffs a bit on the floor, and Harry immediately reaches down to pet her belly. Harry had invited her on the couch, but Gemma was insistent there wasn't enough room. 

Niall comes home a little while later, and he beams at Harry like he's been doing all week. "I fucking love coming home and you being here," he told him the second night Harry was back. "I like knowing where you are, that you're safe, that you're home. It's, like, a huge weight off my back. And I miss hanging out with you."

They sit down for dinner ten minutes later, because Gemma's been complaining throughout the entire movie that she's hungry. Harry listens quietly as they talk about work, and he texts Louis back and forth. They've been texting loads since they've not been seeing each other, and it makes Harry so happy his heart could burst. Louis wanted to come over for Christmas, but said holidays are still too touchy around their household, and that he needs to home and be big brother to his sisters. 

_ Want to hear a joke? _ Louis’ text reads. Before Harry can respond, another message comes through.  _ Why doesn’t santa have kids of his own? _

Harry snorts quietly, and without giving it any thought -- it’s going to be dumb, he knows it’s is -- he sends back, _ idk why? _

_ Cos he only comes once a year and it when he does, it’s thru the chimney.  _ He adds the Santa emoji and the blushing emoji, and Harry rolls his eyes. As he types out a response, Niall gets his attention and he looks up. 

"My parents are planning on coming over here for Christmas," Niall says slowly, like he's expecting a negative reaction out of Harry. Harry glances up from his phone and sets it down. 

"Okay," is all he says. Niall's parents are nice and funny people, and Harry suspects they would be a lot closer if they lived in England still. Once Harry was settled after everything, they had moved back to Ireland. They only moved to England to be close to Niall, and Niall got so busy with Harry that they were barely seeing each other. Harry hasn't seen them in a long time; it's probably been about two years, by now. 

"Is that fine?" Niall asks. 

He shrugs. "Yeah. I mean. . . yeah. They're your parents, like. I'm not going to say no."

"But you could, you know that, right? This is your house."

"Niall, it's fine. It'll be nice to see them again. So long as they're not taking over my bedroom, I don't care."

"Okay," Niall murmurs, sitting back. He exchanges a brief glance with Gemma, and it's even more clear that Niall expected him to be more unsettled by them coming. He wonders if it's because this is the type of thing that used to rattle Harry, and he's surprised that it's not anymore. 

He's becoming less and less fragile, it seems. Hardening over time in a way that's healthy. And if Harry's not mistaken, that's something Nancy would call personal growth. 

When Maura and Bobby come over, it's so noisy that Harry doesn't even have time to think about being anxious or not. It makes him feel breathless at night, but there’s not anything he can do to change it. Apparently, Irish people are loud. 

It's a lot of fun, though. They're here for four days, and during that time, they go out to shops while Gemma and Niall are at work and bring back Harry small gifts, like chocolate and mugs and t-shirts. It becomes clear, after a day or two, that they want to be closer with Harry, so Harry makes a strained attempt at being more open towards them. He tries to smile at them more, and he takes Bobby up on his offers to watch hockey even though Harry doesn't care about sports, and Maura's offer of watching a movie together.

It's nice, over all. And it makes him happy seeing Niall so carefree. He’s probably missed his parents a lot; it’s not like there’s ever been a good time for Niall to fly to Ireland to see them. Harry’s been too dependent on him this entire time. 

There's only one time that things get a bit depressing. Niall and Gemma are at work, and Maura went out to go catch up with some friends, so it's just Harry and Bobby at home. Harry pretends to sleep in late, which is maybe rude, but Bobby doesn't question it when Harry comes out of his room with Belle in tow at eleven in the morning. They have a cup of tea together, and Bobby asks about his courses, and Harry answers his questions. 

There's a natural break in their conversation, and Harry spends the silence on his phone. He texts Luke and Louis back, and then texts Gemma that they need more dog food. When he glances up, Bobby's looking at him with a serious expression, and Harry hesitates. 

"You're a good kid, son," Bobby says, and he sounds emotional. "You've -- there's some people in this world that have everything handed to them, and they still turn out rotten and cruel, and yet you've managed to grow into a nice, strong man. I'm proud of you, and I know that Niall is, too."

Harry gives him a small smile. He tries not to let it show through that he’s uncomfortable. "Thank you."

"I still remember how scared Niall sounded when he called me and told me what had happened," Bobby tells him, and his eyes are getting a little misty. It makes Harry's threaten to do the same. "It'd been the day after your father died, and he called me in hysterics, just kept telling me that he didn't know what to do. He kept saying that. "I don't know what to do, Da, I don't know what to do." But you know what else he kept saying to me?"

Harry shakes his head, his throat too tight to talk. 

"He kept saying to me," he pauses when his voice shakes. "He kept saying, "I don't know what to do, but I've got to figure it out. I've got to keep him safe. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I have to protect him." And I remember telling him, "Are you crazy? That's not your responsibility! What are you thinking, getting involved in a mess like that?" I thought he was doing it for your sister, thought he was trying to be all tough for her. I remember shouting at him that he was being a moron." He laughs, sound regretful. "But he was doing it for you, kid. He wasn't thinking about your sister. From day one, he saw that you needed someone to protect you, and he wanted to be that person." A tear falls down his cheek and he brushes it away, laughing again, this time sounding embarrassed. "I'm glad he was that person for you, is all."

Harry nods a few times before he musters up the courage to try and use his voice. "Me too," he says, and cringes when it comes out broken. He clears his throat and nods again. "Me too, yeah. Definitely. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him."

"Oh, Maura had been heartbroken when she found out you'd tried to hurt yourself. What were you thinking, doing that? Niall was devastated."

"It was just a bad time for me," Harry says thickly. "I didn't mean to upset anyone."

"Well, I got news for you then, Harry." Bobby leans in closer, a warm smile on his lips. "You've got a lot of people who care about you."

"I know that now," Harry promises, returning the smile, even though it falls flat. He does know it, though. And as if to prove it, his phone screen lights up, Louis' response waiting for him. 

After the holidays, Harry's so caught up in trying to get adjusted to university again that he has a bit of a slip up with his antidepressants, and, of course, it doesn't go over too well. 

It's just -- he forgot the first night, and he didn't even realize it until the following night, when he was staying at Luke's dorm because his roommate was out of town still. Harry realizes it because at nine -- the usual time he takes his medication -- he goes to reach in his bag, and his pills aren't there because he hadn't packed them, and then he remembers he hadn't taken them yesterday, either. 

He remembers to take them the following night, but he already feels sick from not taking his pills two days in a row. And he doesn't want to risk throwing up -- he hadn't eaten dinner because he felt so nauseous -- so he tells himself he'll just start taking them again tomorrow. 

That night, after some trouble falling asleep despite being tired, he has a terrible, vivid dream of Helen, of her touching them, of her forcing him to do things. It feels so real that he wakes up to vomit, and then he spends a half hour scrubbing himself clean in the shower at two-thirty in the morning. 

It leaves him rattled and scared. He hates having those types of dreams, and the one he had tonight was more intense and real than normal. 

He blows off classes because he's exhausted and wound too tightly. He texts Luke that he won't be in class, and he gets an immediate  _ you okay? _ text in response. 

_ Fine _ , Harry lies, because he feels jittery and overly-anxious and sick to his stomach.  _ Just tired. Late night. Send me the notes please? _

_ Of course. Feel better xxxx _

Luke leaves it at that. Or, Harry thinks he does, but then he gets a text from Louis about ten minutes later.  _ You're not going to class? _

Harry sits up in bed, annoyed. Not with Louis -- he's just worried -- but with Luke. This is the second time he's gone to Louis with information that Harry would've rather he didn't.

_ Please don't report back to louis like i'm his child or something. Thanks for the notes, _ is what he sends to Luke, because he let it slide last time but now he's irritated. He goes back to Louis' message and types out a reply.  _ No, I'm just feeling a little sick. I'm fine. _

_ Mate I'm not going to class either, I was just wondering if you wanted company.  _

It makes Harry smile a bit, but he declines Louis' offer because he's tired and cranky. He doesn't want to snap at Louis unreasonably, like he used to with Niall and Gemma. Louis doesn't deserve it, and he wouldn't know why. He'd take it personally. 

He doesn't do much of anything all day except watch TV and fall in and out of shallow, short naps. He's too scared to fall asleep completely -- he hasn't had a dream as bad as last night's in a while -- so by seven o'clock, he's completely exhausted. 

He realizes, extremely belatedly, that he hasn't eaten all day, which is enough to force himself to stop being an idiot. He can't let him do this to himself; he'll take his pill tonight, he'll handle the side effects of going back on it for the next four or five days, and then he'll be back on track. And he'll also set an alarm on his phone to remind him to take his antidepressants, because today's been a shit day and he can't have more of these if he wants to keep up with school. 

_ Hi, you busy?  _ he texts Louis, ignoring Luke's apology from earlier. He gets a response fairly quickly. 

_ Not really. What's up? _

_ Was wondering if you'd do me a favor and bring me some food? Don't feel like moving. I'll pay you back obviously _

_ Ughh yeah. Give me twenty. What do u want? _

Harry shrugs as he types out,  _ Doesn't matter. thank u xxxxxxx _

He lies in bed, wondering if he should tell Niall or Gemma about this little fumble of his or not, until Louis knocks on his door with a bag of Nando's. By that time, he's decided he'll come clean to them after he's got himself sorted again. 

"Thank you, seriously," Harry murmurs, and he reaches for the bag, but Louis swats his hand away. He goes over and sits on Harry's bed, and then separates what's Harry's and what's Louis'. 

"There," Louis says. "Now you may feast."

Harry has his laptop pulled up from earlier, so he presses play on the screen as Louis gets comfortable under the blankets. He's just been watching  _ The Walking Dead _ reruns all day, and Louis doesn't seem to mind so he leaves it. They eat in a peaceful silence, and Harry ignores the way his stomach twists in protest while he eats. 

"You look like shit," Louis says, once he's finished his wrap. He tosses the wrapper in the general direction of Harry's trash, and misses by about a foot. He shrugs and goes into the fries. "I wasn't going to say anything, but, like. Dunno. Changed my mind."

Harry considers lying, but he decides that if he's going to tell Louis about his past soon, he might as well start being honest. He sets his burger to the side and wipes the grease on his fingers off on his pants. "I didn't sleep much last night," he says, shrugging stiffly. It's reflex to be defensive. 

"Yeah? Why not?" Louis leans in closer, hand frozen in the fry container, eyebrows furrowed. 

"I fucked up with taking my medication," he says, ripping off the band-aid. He purposely doesn't look at Louis, instead focusing on the episode still playing. "I haven't taken it in a few days, and I don't feel all that well, so."

He expects to be met with immediate disapproval, but instead, Louis doesn't say anything at first. He's quiet, and Harry chances a look up and sees he's frowning at him. 

"I'm doing fine, like, mentally," Harry says quickly. He doesn't want Louis to worry, and even though it's not necessarily the truth, it gets the message across that no, he hasn't thought about hurting himself, because he knows that's exactly where Louis' mind is at. "I'm gonna start taking them tonight, I promise." He grabs the bottle of pills he put on his nightstand as a reminder and jangles it about. "See? And I set an alarm on my phone, so I won't forget."

" _ Were _ you forgetting?" Louis doesn't sound so sure. Harry tries not to be offended. "Or did you just stop taking them?"

"The first night I forgot, and then the next night I was at Luke's and didn't bring them, and then last night I didn't take them because I felt too sick."

Louis' frown deepens. "You have to be more mindful, H."

"I don't usually have a problem with it," Harry defends. "It was just because I was adjusting to being back on campus. I'll get back on track, don't worry."

"The last time you stopped taking your meds. . . " Louis murmurs, trailing off. He looks down. 

"You don't have to bring it up every time we see each other," he says, making sure to keep his tone soft. He knows he probably scared the daylights out of Louis when he called him, bleeding on a toilet seat, so he's not going to hold it against him that he's so affected by it still. "I'd been off my meds for months at that point, and I was in a dark place, alright? Neither of those two things are true right now. I'm okay."

Louis just shrugs, and Harry sighs, reaching forward to grab his hand. "Louis. Seriously. I'm okay. I wouldn't be telling you that I was off my meds if I wasn't. If I'm doing bad, you'll be able to tell. I promise." It’s true -- he’s shit at hiding what he’s thinking or feeling.

"Okay," Louis murmurs, nodding once. "Okay. I believe you."

But he doesn't, and Harry wishes fiercely he could go back in time and not answer’s Louis call. He shouldn't have been so selfish; if Harry had gotten a call from a suicidal Louis, it would've shattered him. And no, he wasn’t thinking very clear at the time, but he should’ve known better than to answer a phone call when he was doing so poorly. 

On the other hand, if Harry hadn’t answered that call, he wouldn’t be alive right now. 

He squeezes Louis' hand, hard. "I'm not going to leave you, Lou. Not again."

And he knows that that's what this is all about, because Louis whips his head up to look at him, eyes wide and pleading. "You better not," he says, breathless. He looks genuinely fearful.

"I won't. Promise."

He doesn't feel like himself when he awkwardly shuffles over to Louis and pulls him into his side, but he's glad he managed to do it when Louis tucks his knees up against Harry's thigh and places his head on Harry's shoulder. 

A week later, he's back on his medication, he's feeling perfectly fine again, and him and Louis are entering new territory. 

Ever since Harry held him, things between them have felt more. . . intimate. Purposeful. On both ends, which is. . . confusing, to say the least. First because Harry's not sure if he's making it up or not, and then because he catches himself hoping he isn't. 

He's not. That much becomes clear quickly. Louis keeps touching him. He likes to lightly trail his fingers over Harry's skin -- over his wrist, across the small of his back, against his ankle -- and it leaves Harry shuddering at the gentle tickle. It feels teasing, almost. Just last night, Louis reached over and ran his finger under Harry's jaw, and Harry had to grab his hand to stop him because of how much he liked it, because of the way his breath hitched. 

it's a fine line he's walking, and he knows it. Sometimes Louis' touches leave him feeling good, and other times they turn his gut is disgust. He doesn't understand why sometimes it's okay, and sometimes it's not, so he doesn't say anything to Louis about it.

He's just glad he has a bit of a warning about all this; this way, he gets to try and get his thoughts in order. With Luke, he hadn't gotten the opportunity to do that. Everything was thrown onto him at once, and he couldn’t handle it. He’s hoping that he can handle it this time around with Louis, and it’s a surprise even to himself. 

He brings these troubles to Gemma, who seems as uncertain as he does. She’s been more worried about him since Harry told her about his medication slip up -- both her and Niall have -- and she’s probably scared he’s going to go off the deep end.

"If he. . . if he kissed you, like. How do you think you'd react?"

"I don't know," Harry admits, frowning. "I've never thought about him like. . . like _ that _ , but, like. I think I like it when he touches me. I think it makes me feel more good than it does bad. And I don't know what it means. And I don't know if I'm ready to figure it out, either."

"You've got to be honest with him about your apprehension, love," she says, gentle. "You haven't got to tell him why, but maybe let him know to take it slow?"

"But then I'm acknowledging it. He hasn't acknowledged it yet. I'm worried if I talk about it, he'll stop."

Gemma's quiet for a moment, and then she says, "If you're saying things like that, I'm pretty sure you know what you want, Harry. Maybe you're scared to put yourself in that position, and that's okay, but -- Harry. Things will be a thousand times better for you and him if you are just honest about the kind of pace you need."

He doesn't bring it up to Louis that he'd benefit from a little more communication and a slow pace, and he's caught wishing he did about two weeks later when Louis finally steps it up a notch.

It's nothing more than playful flirting, Harry understands that. He understands that, in a world where he isn't scarred, he wouldn't be cringing at the way Louis' fingers slide under his t-shirt and trace patterns against his skin. It felt nice, at first -- it brought along that gentle tickle of unmistakable arousal. And then Louis went a bit lower, got a bit friskier, and his finger's been running against the top of Harry's jeans for a few minutes now.

At least today he understands where his reluctance his coming from. He woke up and his mind was a bit more tangled than normal, which is normally fine. But normally he doesn't have Louis blatantly offering what he's offering. And he knows, he  _ knows _ , if he would say  _ one _ tiny thing that would lead Louis to believe that he was even the tiniest bit uncomfortable, Louis would back off immediately, but he doesn't want to mess up this. . . whatever this is between them. 

It takes him a full ten more minutes for Harry to gain the courage to grab Louis' hand, halting his movements. He feels Louis tense beside him, and then relax gradually when Harry places his hand back down on Harry's chest. He lays Louis hand out flat, and he plays with his fingers for a bit. Louis watches him with his head tilted against Harry's shoulder. 

Like this, now that Louis’ hand isn’t so close to his crotch, Harry’s head feels clearer. And even if moving his hand was a bit subtle, he hopes that Louis understands that Harry’s not ready for anything like that.

Later that night, when Louis finally sits up and says he has to get back to his dorm, he catches Harry's wrist just before he's about to leave.

"Am I reading you right?" he asks, voice quiet. His thumb slides across his skin. "Are you. . . Are you aware of what I'm getting at?"

Harry swallows thickly. He can't stop looking at how serious Louis' eyes are. "I think so."

"To which question?"

"Both."

Louis nods, and he moves a little closer to Harry. For a terrifying moment, Harry thinks he's about to kiss him, but he doesn't. He just reaches up to drag his thumb across Harry's cheekbone, and then he turns and leaves. 

Harry recognizes the deep curl of arousal in stomach. He knows what it means, and he knows what this might lead to, and he has absolutely no way of knowing if he's ready for it or not. 

He's not, he learns, two days later when Louis finally kisses him. 

They're laying in Harry's bed, both studying quietly, when Louis sets a hand on his forearm. Harry ignores it at first, thinking that Louis' just being touchy like normal, and continues to concentrate on his assingment. 

And then Louis whispers, "H."

Harry glances up, and Louis leans in and kisses him. 

What's the most confusing part to Harry is that he's alright with it, at first. He's full well into the way Louis feels against him, how he kisses and how he tastes. He kisses him back, just as hungry as Louis seems to be, and then gradually -- so, so slowly -- Harry feels himself start to disappear. 

He ignores it initially, too blind with the desire to keep kissing Louis. Louis' got him pushed back against the pillows now, and Harry's got a hand against his hip, gripping onto him tightly. But the little kicks of insistent reminders start to become harder to ignore -- Helen's hands on him, her mouth on his skin,  _ Jack's  _ mouth, the rough stubble against his check. They demand his attention, and it gets too overwhelming and disturbing to ignore, so he pulls away from Louis, breathless and trembling. He can't tell if it's from fear or not. 

He keeps his head turned from Louis, even when Louis immediately pulls away and sits back against his heels. Harry's hand is still on his hip, but he feels too disconnected to remove it, for some reason. He's so far back in his head that this moment seems like it's already happened before, somehow, and he doesn't have any power in changing what hasn't even happened yet. 

"Did I -- you kissed me back."

Harry doesn't say anything, head still turned. 

"Hey. Don't -- look at me, please? I don't understand." He's not met with a response, so he sighs quietly. "H, you told me two days ago that you wanted this. Or that you were okay with me wanting it, which. . . maybe I looked into that too far, but you kissed me back, for a long time, so, like. I don't understand."

He's sure he's trembling from fear now, he's positive about it. The only part of him that isn't shaking is the hand that's clutching onto Louis' hip, which is just confusing Louis even more. 

"Can you please say something?" Louis asks, quiet. He sounds so unsure of himself. 

Harry's gut twists even more. He feels stuck, like he wants to move but can't, like he wants to say something but is unable to. He doesn't know what's not connecting in his brain, but it's got Louis all twisted up inside. 

Louis' hand grabs a hold of Harry's, and Harry pulls back like he's been burned. He tucks his hand against his chest, and now that he's not touching Louis anymore, he can think a little clearer. He understands he's stuck somewhere else in his head, reliving a memory like it's happening right now, and that he needs to get back to reality. 

He takes a few deep breaths, and when that doesn't work, he closes his eyes. He just starts thinking about the most random things, like Belle. He imagines playing with her outside, throwing a ball for her over and over again, and eventually, the other memory closes itself back up and stops. 

Harry opens his eyes again, and he's back in his dorm. It's weird; he knows he never left, and now that he's back to the present, he can't even remember what it was that he was thinking about. 

"Do you want me to go?" Louis asks, voice barely audible. His face is red and Harry turns his head a bit more to make sure there's not tears in his eyes; there isn't. At least, none that are visible. But it’s obvious that Louis’ feeling insecure, and Harry hates that. 

"No," Harry whispers, and it startles himself. 

Louis looks miserable. "No? But do you -- do you not want me to do. . . that again?"

"I. . . " Harry still doesn't feel like he's the only one living in his body, and he clears his throat, shakes his head. "I think maybe we should just, like. Study."

"H. I need to know if that was okay or not. I can't do homework when I don't know if I just fucked everything up with us or not."

Harry turns his head completely to look at him then, and he shakes his head again. "I told you I'm not leaving again."

"Okay," Louis murmurs. He doesn't look any less miserable, but he goes back to his side of the bed and picks up his textbook. Harry stares at his, wondering how any of it made sense to him before Louis had kissed him. 

Harry's off for the next few days, and he doesn't mean to pull back from Louis, but it happens anyway. He just feels so disoriented, like everything in the world got shifted one inch to the right. It doesn't make any sense. 

Louis still comes over when he normally does, and Harry still talks to him and they still have. . . fun, he supposes, he's not really sure. But he is sure that he's overall just being quiet, like his whole existence has been turned down a notch, and he doesn't know how to turn it back up. It’s got Louis acting wrong-footed around him, and Niall’s been checking on him more now, and since Harry never told him that anything was wrong -- not wrong, but off -- he knows Louis must’ve warned Niall, which was probably embarrassing for him. 

It fixes itself, eventually. After five days, he feels more in tune with his mind and body, and he feels like his laugh is brighter. He feels like Louis' laugh is brighter, too. Everything just seems so much more than it was the last few days. It's so odd. 

When he mentions this all to Nancy that weekend, he can't even describe it. He tries, but everything he says either doesn’t make sense or makes him sound completely insane. Once she's finished, she's frowning at him through the screen. 

"And this is the first time you've experienced this?"

He nods. 

"Not with Jack? Or any other time before that?"

He shakes his head. 

"Alright, Harry." She leans forward in her desk and smiles gently at him. She's about to try and explain something difficult to him, he can tell. He braces himself. "I don't feel comfortable diagnosing you with this just yet, seeing as though this has happened only once. But what you're describing sounds like you experienced an episode of derealization. . . Do you know what that means?"

He shakes his head again and leans back further into his bed. Great. There's something else wrong with him. But he already knew that. He knew these last few days haven't been normal. 

She explains that it's often paired with depersonalization, which is the feeling of being outside of your body, but he doesn't exactly relate to that. She says derealization is when you feel as though your surroundings aren't real, or not quite right, and she reads a list of symptoms off to him. He nods to most of them. 

"It's possible this is just a one-time occurrence," she tells him, "and it's also possible this might be something you struggle with for a little while, or a long while. It just depends. If you start to feel like this again, though, I want you to write down how you feel, alright?"

He nods, and then he points the conversation in a different direction because he's sick of talking about that. 

Louis comes by that night, and things are more or less back to normal between them. The only thing that’s really changed between what happened and now is Louis' not touchy anymore, and Harry misses it terribly, and he gets a little desperate. 

They're watching YouTube videos on Louis' laptop when Harry scoots over and slots himself next to Louis. He’s not done anything that would make Louis question it; they cuddle all the time now. Harry rests his head on Louis' chest, and they stay like that for a little while. It's not enough for Harry, so he grabs Louis' hand and pulls it closer to him. 

"I liked it when you touched me," he murmurs, with fake courage. In reality, he just feels steady because he can't see Louis' face. He runs his thumb over Louis' knuckles. 

"I'm not going to do that anymore, H."

"Why not?"

Louis sighs. "Because I like you a lot, and I'm not going to torture myself like that." He pulls his hand away from Harry's and sets it down on the bed. "I don't mean to sound like a prick, but, like. I want a lot more than holding hands, and I don't think it's fair to either of us if I act like I didn't."

"Who said I didn't want more than that, too?" Harry asks, voice small. Louis laughs, not unkindly. 

"You, kind of. You clearly weren't into it when I kissed you."

"Yes I was. I kissed you back."

Louis pats his shoulder. "It's alright, H. I'm okay with us just being friends."

"I kissed you back," Harry says again, sitting up. He wants to see Louis' face, now. He's not surprised to see how confused Louis looks. "I like you a lot too, Louis."

He laughs nervously and looks down. "Haz, it's okay. You don't -- "

Harry shuts him up by bending down and kissing him, and as soon as his brain processes what he's doing, he pulls back and blinks hard. "I'm just not good at this," he says lamely. “Like, I’m not. . . I’m not, um, used to this. And I don’t know how to get used to it.”

Louis frowns. "Is that -- is that what that was about? You're nervous because you haven't . . . because you aren't experienced?"

Harry's had plenty of experience. That's not the problem. But he shrugs, because him pretending to be a scared virgin is easier than the truth. 

"I wish you would've just told me that, fucking hell," Louis murmurs, dragging a hand through his hair. "I was -- shit, Haz, I thought I had completely crossed a line."

"I didn't mean to be weird," he mumbles. He feels so stupid. "I just want to take things slow."

"There's nothing embarrassing about being a virgin, you know." Louis looks amused, almost. He has no idea what he's talking about. Harry hasn't been a virgin since he was seven years old. He's had sex more times than Louis has, undoubtedly. 

"I know," he says anyway. "I know. I just -- it was really fast for me. And I didn't know what to do."

Louis nods slowly. "Okay. Okay, that's -- I'll be more clear with you then, yeah? We can talk things out before we do them. That's okay."

"Okay," Harry agrees, nodding. He lowers himself back down to Louis' chest, and Louis immediately starts petting his hair. It soothes him immensely. 

They're at the point, now, where the truth is making a liar out of Harry. He needs to tell Louis, and he needs to do it soon. And nothing has ever sounded so scary. 

The following day, after Louis has left, Harry spends the afternoon reading his old journals. He started journaling at around nine years old, and kept up with it until Helen was arrested. His last entry is from the night before all of that happened. 

_ Louis and I went to the shops today. He drove his mum's car, which is not entirely legal. But he has his provisional permit at least, so that's better than nothing, I guess. He's a good driver. I wasn't worried about getting pulled over. (Although how scary would that be? I wouldn't have gotten in trouble, but Louis would've. The police here can be pretty scary.) _

_ I spent some of my birthday money and got a new pair of trainers. They're pretty cool. I was going to buy this nice snow globe for Mum, but I'm still mad at her. She told me this morning she was going to make it up to me, but I don't see how she can do that. She hurt me.  _

_ Louis ran into his friend Stan there and they talked for a long time. I don't really know Stan so I kind of just stood off to the side. I felt stupid. Louis' so much older than me. The two year age difference seems so large now. He's going to uni in two years. He's going to leave me and make cool uni friends. It makes me sad.  _

_ Anyway. We got some coffee and then we went to Louis' house. Lottie called me cute again. Louis shoved her off the couch. It was pretty funny. He has a nice family.  _

It's so weird, reading that now. That version of Harry has no idea his entirely world is about to be completely changed. If Harry had gotten at least a little bit of a warning, things wouldn't have been so bad. At least, he doesn't think it would be. 

He has three journals; one is from about ages 9-12, and the other one is from 13-14. When he tried to start journaling again a little while ago, he had gotten a new journal. There's only one page used, and three-fourths of it filled with doodles, under the quote,  _ "You can only go up from here." _ It's a bit cliche, if he's honest, but he was right. In the end, he was right. He had just come out of rock bottom, and there was literally no way he could get any worse. 

He bookmarks three passages in his journals with little pink sticky notes. They were the only three that Harry would feel comfortable showing to Louis; others were too graphic, or they sounded too positive about the whole thing. It'd be embarrassing, showing Louis how delusional he was for so long. The three he chose are from rare times where Harry was experiencing doubt and confusion about what Helen was doing, and they mostly just imply what she did. The second one is probably the most forward with it, but barely. 

He doesn't want to give Louis too many details. He'll get the idea of it without having to read it. He has to.

Today's not going to be the day he does it, he decides, because reading through all those years of his life left him feeling a bit emotionally frayed, so he texts Luke and asks if he wants to do something. He says he can't, so he texts Louis instead. 

_ Come to mine? _ Louis replies.  _ My roommates not gonna be here for another few hours and you've barely been over here. _

_ Ok. Be there in 10 xx _

The walk over to Louis' building is relatively short and doesn't require him walking through any of the shady areas of campus, but he calls Gemma anyway to chat with her until he's there. Better safe than sorry, he supposes. And besides, he doesn't exactly want to spend ten minutes thinking right now, not when everything was just pulled to the forefront of his brain. 

He talks to her shortly, and not about anything serious. When he walks into Louis’ building, he says goodbye and hangs up. 

Louis looks tired in a soft, rumpled kind of way. He's wearing a sweater that's too long for his arms and gray sweatpants, Adidas socks on his feet. "Hii," he says, voice scratchy, and Harry laughs quietly, squinting at him. 

"Were you asleep?" he asks, shutting the door behind him. 

Louis shakes his head. "Not really. I just haven't gotten out of bed in the last four hours, and have done nothing but watch bad reality TV, so, like. I was basically brain-dead." He comes closer and pulls Harry towards him, and Harry's hands come up to Louis' shoulders. Their faces are only a few inches apart, and Harry's immediately more alert. Not in a bad way, though. 

"So," Louis murmurs, bringing his hand up to brush at Harry's hair. "How slow are we talking?"

Harry shrugs and glances down. "I don't know. Just. . . slow."

Slow enough not to throw him into a panic attack. Gentle enough not to remind him of anyone else. Innocent enough that he doesn’t remember the times that he had something to be ashamed of.

"Like, can I kiss you?"

"Not today."

Louis grins, looking a little surprised. He might be thinking that Harry's trying to be a tease, or something. Like he’s playing hard to get. "And what about tomorrow?"

"I don't know," Harry says, honest. He leans in closer to Louis and wraps his arms around him, Harry's cheek resting on Louis' shoulder even though he's too tall for it. "Ask me tomorrow."

"Okay, I'll do that." 

He pulls Harry to his bed and they plop down there ungracefully. It's quiet, and then Louis sits up abruptly and grabs his laptop off the floor. He pulls it on top of his lap, and Harry squirms up in the bed so he can see the screen. 

"I found this band I think you'd like," he mumbles, concentrating on typing. He pulls up a video and presses play, and then looks down at Harry and shrugs. "They're called Wallows, like. I don't know. But it reminded me of you. Of, like. The stuff you listen to."

For the next three hours, they take turns playing artists they're into and watching live performances. It's just. . . nice. It's perfect, almost. Exactly what Harry needed to take his mind off things. 

"Take a nap," Louis tells him, once he catches Harry's eyes fluttering shut for the third time. They’ve somehow been watching live performances from Britney Spears for the last half hour. He doesn’t know how they got here, and he’s not sure why neither of them have decided to change it. 

"I'm not tired," Harry protests, but he is. He snuggles up closer to Louis', so his head is resting against Louis' hip. "Your roommate's going to be home soon."

"Matt won't care if you're here or not. Just sleep, H. I'll wake you up in an hour, if you want."

And an hour doesn't sound too bad, so he nods against Louis. "Alright. One hour."

A week later, Harry can't put off telling Louis any longer. 

They've had about three conversations about what they're doing, now, and each time, Louis gets frustrated with how squirrely Harry's being with the whole thing. He hides it well, but Harry notices it. Louis' started to doubt Harry's commitment to this, and he's beginning to think that he likes Harry a lot more than Harry likes him. Harry tries to prove that that's not true, but it's hard.

“I’m not trying to come across like I need sex or something, because that’s not true,” Louis told him, trying to sound calm but failing. He looked so hurt. “But one day it’s fine if I kiss you, and then the next you’re telling me I’m going too fast and that I’m making you uncomfortable, and -- Harry. I just need more of an understanding of what’s okay and what’s not.”

Harry stayed quiet. 

The only way he can make Louis understand is by telling him the truth. 

He calls Gemma for a pep-talk. Niall will be too gentle with him, will give him too many outs. He needs someone to push him a little, and Gemma's always been good at that. She doesn't let him down; by the time he gets off the phone with him, he has the courage to text Louis. 

_ Hey. You busy? _

_ i have class in forty minutes, but if you wanted me to stop by for a few i can.  _

No. Harry needs a lot longer than forty minutes. He's needs time to explain this to Louis, and he needs to give Louis time to digest it and ask whatever he needs to ask. Gemma told him that he needs to try and answer whatever questions Louis has. And it scares him that he can’t predict any of the questions that Louis might have about it. If he could predict them, he could prepare for them, but he can’t, so he’s stuck in the dark. 

_ Are you busy tonight?  _

_ I'm at the law firm after class until seven. I'll be back here by eight.  _

Harry had his early class this morning, and he's not going to make it passed ten o'clock. Plus, he was going to call Luke and talk with him a bit. They haven't been seeing as much of each other lately, partly because of Louis and partly because Luke keeps hanging out with that guy he bumped into at the party. They're still close friends, and that's something Harry doesn't want to lose. He will, though, if he lets them drift apart too much, so he’s trying to avoid that at all costs. 

_ Tomorrow? _

_ I have class from 8-11 but that's it. why? _ And then, in a separate message that reads,  _ do you miss meeee _

_ I just want to talk to you about some things _ , Harry writes, and then hesitantly presses send. He takes a deep breath as he waits for Louis to reply. 

_I can blow off my internship tonight if you need? I don't actually do much there. they wont be too mad at me._ 


That sounds the most ideal, considering Harry doesn't want to wait until tomorrow afternoon when he feels ready to do it now -- well, as ready as he's ever felt. But he can't be messing with Louis' career. _ I'm not going to ask you to do that _ , he types slowly. 

_ you're not asking, I'm offering. I'll see you at two xx you okay in the meantime? do you need me to come over sooner? _

That's when it clicks for Harry: Louis' not just being overly considerate and kind, he's taking Harry saying he needs to talk as a cry for help. He thinks Harry's thinking about hurting himself again, and that, like last time, he’s reaching out to Louis for help. It's frustrating; he's told Louis so many times he wouldn't do that again. He understands that Louis' worried, but at this point, Harry's started to feel like he's not being trusted. 

He calls Louis and sighs as he waits for him to pick up. Louis does quickly, and immediately, Harry says, "Louis. I'm not thinking about suicide, alright? That's not what I wanted to talk about."

"Oh," Louis says quietly. He sounds caught-out. "Okay, sorry. I just -- what is it, then?"

"I'm ready to talk about it with you, I think." He closes his eyes and wipes at his face. Maybe he isn't, if it's hard to even say he is. But he's too far in to change his mind now. "Like, I'm ready to tell you everything. Well, not everything, but, like. . . the worst of it."

"Oh," Louis says again. "Oh. Well, um. Okay? Like, I'll still come by at two, and we can talk about. . . whatever it is then, okay?"

"But your internship," Harry says weakly. 

"It's fine. I don't care about that right now. I've never called off before, and it's still early enough for it to be acceptable." And then, quieter, "You're more important than that, alright? Than any of it."

"Okay," Harry says, and he's surprised when he hears how thick his voice has gotten, and when he notices the tears stinging his eyes. Louis calling him important is just a lot, right now. 

Louis starts to say something, and then stops. "Are you sure you don't want me to skip class?"

"No, don't do that. It's alright. I'll be fine. Seriously. I'm sure I can find something to watch on Netflix until you get here."

"Alright," Louis murmurs, and he doesn't sound so sure. "But I'll have my phone on in class, so if you need me -- "

Harry laughs quietly. "Lou, I'm okay."

"But still. If you need me, I can come. Always."

"Okay," Harry agrees. "Okay. But go to class. I'll see you after."

"Alright. And whatever it is, like. . . Don't worry about telling me. I love you, you know? Nothing's going to change that."

Harry feels his heart jump, and his throat feels tighter. He nods, and then realizes Louis can't see him. "I love you, too." He sounds as emotional and raw as he feels. They haven’t said that to each other before. Not in this context, anyway.

Louis reluctantly says goodbye and hangs up, and Harry lies down in bed. He only lays there for a little while -- he can't do it any longer, or else he'll be too wound up to tell Louis anything -- and eventually, he forces himself to grab his laptop and watch some stupid TV. 

Louis gets to Harry's dorm at two fifteen, two coffees wrapped in his hands. 

"Here," he murmurs, handing it to Harry. As soon as Harry accepts it, Louis wipes his free hand on his pants, like it's sweaty. He seems nervous. "I didn't know if this was, like, a coffee kind of conversation, but I figured we'd both feel a lot more settled if we had something to do with our hands, so. . . "

Harry smiles at him, despite his stomach being in knots. Niall was right; Louis is the right kind of person to be telling this too. 

The coffee is warm in his hands and Louis tells him it's probably too hot to drink, so Harry sets it on his desk as he sits down in his rolling chair near his desk. His journals are in his desk, and he'd rather not be sitting in the same bed as Louis when he tells him this. Louis sits down on the edge of Harry's bed, looking uncomfortable and a little scared. 

"I don't want you to get mad or yourself, or, like. Blame yourself. Or feel like you should've known, or something." Harry knows that, right now, that doesn't make sense to Louis, but he thinks that if he says it now, Louis might not fall down that path of self-hatred as quickly later. 

Louis furrows his eyebrows, his other hand coming to hold his coffee. "Okay. . ."

Harry nods. Right. He wipes his hands on his pants before turning to his desk. He grabs two of his journals out of the drawer and turns back to Louis. He clutches them tight, knowing how many secrets they hold. Too many.

"Aren't those your  _ old _ journals?" Louis asks, sounding even more confused. He must've thought that whatever happened to Harry happened after he stopped talking to Louis. 

He's so wrong. 

"Yeah, um. Showing you seems easier than telling you. . ." He runs his hand over the cover of the oldest one, just for something to do. "Is that okay?"

Louis nods immediately. "Whatever is easier for you."

Harry nods and hands the first journal to Louis. It feels like he's handing over the world. Louis takes it after setting his coffee down, and he goes to open it, but Harry tells him to wait. 

"I, um. I just wanted to say, like. I was either ten or eleven when I wrote this one. And it's not the most clear, but I want you to read all of them before we talk, okay?" 

"Don't cry," Louis whispers, and Harry shakes his head. He didn't even realize that tears were threatening to fall, but it's not what's important right now. He moves closer to Louis and opens to the right page before scooting back again. He pulls his legs up to his chest and begins to chew on his fingernails nervously. 

Now all he can do is wait. 

The first passage is probably the lightest in comparison to all the others, but Louis' face still twists fairly early on. Harry tries to work out what part he's at, and he can't quite figure it out. 

_ I don't understand it anymore,  _ is how it starts. 

_ We had sex ed today for the first time. The girls went in one room and the boys went in a different one. A teacher named Mr. Grooms taught us about boy parts and puberty and wet dreams, and Camden asked him when most boys lose their virginity. I didn't know what that meant, but I wasn't going to ask. He explained it, and apparently that's when you have sex for the first time. Mr. Grooms said it depends, but the average age is eighteen. My eighteenth birthday is so far away. Not even Louis' eighteen yet. _

_ I asked Mum if it counts as sex and she said yes, and that I had just matured early. She says I'm very mature and good and that's why I get special treats but I still don't understand. There are other good kids in my year, and I heard one of them today say they were still a virgin. How come he doesn't get anything special? _

_ I want to ask Louis about it. Louis would tell me the truth, I know he would. He would be honest with me. But Mum's told me I can't tell him, even if I really want to. I might. I don't know. She wouldn't find out if I did, would she? And if she did, she wouldn't be mad, I don't think. I just want to understand it better and she doesn't answer all my questions. Louis would. I know he would.  _

_ I'm gonna wait until sex ed is over until I ask anything. I don't want to look dumb in front of him.  _

Louis looks up slowly, looking cautious. He looks back down at the journal before glancing at him again. Harry squirms under his gaze. 

"You said you were ten here?" He already sounds distraught. It’s only going to get worse from here.

Harry nods once. "About." He resists the intense urge to look away, but it’s difficult.

"But this says. . . " He shakes his head and clears his throat. "This says -- I don't understand it, when it says you've already had sex. You were ten, you -- " He wipes at his face and shakes his head again. "What the fuck am I reading, Harry?" He doesn't sound angry, just really, really confused. 

Harry takes the journal from his hands carefully before putting the other one its place. He finds the right page and opens to it, and Louis won't look at it, at first. 

"I was thirteen when I wrote this one. It'll probably be the hardest one to read, I think," Harry whispers. He wants to say something else, but he doesn't know what, so he leans back in the chair. 

It takes Louis a solid few seconds to look back at the journal, and even longer to actually start reading. 

_ Mum is making me mad. She's not listening to me. I tell her I don't want to play and sometimes she says we have to, which is stupid because games are supposed to be fun. Two nights ago I told her I was too tired and she kept asking and asking and I just did it so she would stop asking and I could go to bed. And last night I told her that I wanted to go over to Louis' house but she said before I could I needed to play with her so she wouldn't be lonely while I was away. I don't understand how that works but I did it because I don't want her to be sad. It was fun but then I was tired at Louis' and I don't know. I just wish we could only play certain days, like maybe Tuesdays and Thursdays and then the weekends or something like that. I get tired sometimes.  _

_ Mum asked me this morning why I'm not being good lately and I asked her what she meant and she said that I'm being rebellious. I only know what that means because Louis' mum tells him he's rebellious all the time. And I got upset and she told me that I would be good again if I stopped saying I didn't want to play because it makes her sad. I'm gonna be a really good boy when we play tonight so she isn't mad. I'm gonna be a very good listener. She likes it when I listen really well, but sometimes it's hard because I don't understand what she wants me to do. I’m going to try my hardest though.  _

_ I didn't tell her why I haven't wanted to play lately because I think if I do she will be mad. She might not want to hear that Louis touched me down there because Louis' a boy and I don't want to have to stop seeing him so I'm not going to tell her. It's not a lie, is it? I don't think so. Louis said it isn't.  _

_ But it was different when he touched me there. It felt different. I don't know why, since he was doing all the same stuff Mum does, but it did. _

Harry's positive that this is the point Louis' at when he whips his head up to look at Harry. His face is colored a light shade of red, and his hands are beginning to shake a little. 

"What is this?" Louis asks, voice shaky. "Harry, I don't -- "

"Just keep reading. Please." 

Louis looks at him incredulously. "Harry, I -- "

"Keep reading," Harry insists, and then he looks down and puts his head in his hands. They've officially reached the point where he can't go back. 

Louis keeps reading. 

_ But it was different when he touched me there. It felt different. I don't know why, since he was doing all the same stuff Mum does, but it did. And he didn't tell me do anything to him, and sometimes I'm too tired afterwards do want to anything to Mum and she says that's being selfish.  _

_ I'm still confused about it. That's why I didn't want to play last night or the night before. And Louis said I shouldn't tell people about it, and I don't get that either. I can't tell anyone about me and mum and I can't tell anyone about me and Louis. I thought sex was a good thing? Whenever the years above me have sex I always hear loads about it. Kyle has a list that he shares with his mates and they all talk about what girl was the worst and things like that. They don't keep it a secret. Maybe they don't have to.  _

_ I don't know, and I'm tired now but Gemma just went to bed so Mum will come to my room in a few minutes. I have to be a good boy for her tonight, that way she's not mad at me.  _

"I don't want to read anything else," Louis says, voice low. He closes the book and holds it out for Harry to take back, and Harry shakes his head. 

"There's one more. There's just one more that I want you to read."

"I can't. Harry, I don't -- " he clenches his eyes shut and he lets out a quiet noise, too close to a cry for Harry's liking. His heart clenches. "I don't even know what I just read."

Harry takes a deep breath. "Yes, you do. What you're thinking, that's . . . that's what happened."

"No, _ no _ ." Louis stands, shaking his head. He looks wild like this, eyes wide and fierce. He's still handing the book out to Harry, and he shakes it harder. "I can't read anymore. Please don't make me read anymore."

Harry stares up at him. Before he can talk, he has to swallow down a lump in his throat. "There's just one more part. It's not that long. Please read it."

"I can't -- "

"Louis," Harry interrupts, trying to keep his voice stern when in reality he wants to crumble. "This is how I wanted to tell you my story, okay, so please respect that."

That's what gets Louis to sit back down. He's breathing kind of heavily, which Harry ignores as he opens up to the next part. And because he feels like Louis needs it, he stays close and holds his wrist firmly.

"How old were for this one?" Louis asks before he starts reading, voice hoarse. 

"Fourteen."

Louis nods once. 

_ She hurt me. She got mad and she hurt me and it didn't feel like a game anymore and I don't know what to do. It wasn't fun and usually it's fun and I don't understand why she got so mad. Louis and I joke about what we did and it's funny, and I thought she would laugh too but she didn't and she just hurt me.  _

_ I slept in Gemma's bed last night because I was scared and I don't think Mum liked that so I'm scared she's going to be mad at me tonight too and hurt me again. She keeps apologizing to me and petting my hair when Gemma's not paying attention but I don't think I forgive her. Maybe that's not being good but she hurt me. I still hurt. I cried so hard in the shower this morning when I was washing down there because it hurt so bad. It's never hurt that bad before. And then Louis noticed I was upset at school and he asked me what was wrong and I wanted to tell him everything.  _

_ I'm not entirely convinced anymore that what we do is okay. If it's okay, why can't I tell my best friend about it? Why can't I tell my own sister? And she hurt me. That isn't okay. It didn't feel okay. And I know Louis could help me understand better but I'm too scared to tell him now that I know what she will do to me.  _

_ I keep texting Gemma so maybe she won't go to sleep. If it gets too late, Mum won't always come to my room. But Gemma stopped replying a few minutes ago, and now I'm just sitting here in bed wondering if Mum's still mad. _

It's silent after Louis finishes reading. He closes the journal, sets it on the bed beside him, and then just sits there. Harry stays close and keeps his hand firm around Louis' wrist. He doesn't know what to do. He wishes Louis would just say something, but he also kind of understands why he's not. What do you say to that? And now he's probably going back to every conversation they've had, over-analyzing it and wondering how he could've been so blind. 

"I feel like I could throw up," Louis murmurs, minutes later. He moves so that his elbows are on his knees and he puts his head in his hands.

"It's okay if you do," Harry whispers. He sets a shaking hand on the side of Louis' neck, because he needs to try and remind Louis that he's okay. That he's no longer a ten year old being sexually abused by his mum. 

"How -- " he stops himself, and clears his throat. "Did it start when you were ten?"

Harry shakes his head. "I was barely seven when it first started."

"Oh, my  _ God _ ," Louis groans. He lets out a sob, which he seems to regret because he shifts his legs so they're facing away from Harry and he presses his hands to his face. Harry scoots closer and shushes him quietly, starts stroking his thumb over the soft skin on Louis' neck. 

"I don't understand," Louis says, trying to cling on the fact it was never outright said. He stands, shaking Harry's hands off him, and crosses his arms. His face is all blotchy, and there are tears running down his face. "I think I need to hear you say it, because I can't help but think that I've this all this wrong, and fucking hell, I hope I do. I really fucking hope I do."

Harry nods. He can understand that. But he also knows that once he says it, Louis' not going to be able to hide behind denial anymore, and he's going to be so much more upset. He takes a deep breath before saying, "From the ages seven to fourteen, Helen sexually abused me. And by. . . And by sexual abuse, I mean everything. There's nothing we didn't do."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Louis hisses, turning away from Harry. He sets his hands on the top of his head and curses loudly. "I can't fucking believe it. I can't -- "

Harry recoils, not liking that at all. "I'm telling the truth," he whispers, hurt spreading hotly in his chest.

Immediately, Louis turns around to look at him. "I didn't mean it like that, shit." He comes back over to him, and he shakes his head. "I believe you. Of course I believe you. I just -- I mean, what the  _ fuck _ ."

"I'm sorry," Harry says stupidly, and Louis shakes his head at him. 

"Can I hug you? Please?"

Harry nods and stands, and Louis immediately attaches himself to him. He holds Harry tighter than he ever has, and Harry doesn't know when he starts crying but eventually he can't stop. He lets out a broken sob into Louis' shoulder, fisting the back of his shirt. 

He's feels stupid. He wanted to be able to be strong for Louis, to be this emotionless, tough person that can sit back and answer all of Louis' questions like they don't hurt him, but he can't. And he should've realized he wasn't going to be able to. 

"I'm so sorry I didn't notice," Louis whispers. 

Harry instantly pulls back. 

"No, no that's -- don't blame yourself. You didn't do anything wrong." He shakes his head and wipes his eyes; thankfully, they stay dry. "That's exactly what I didn't want you to say."

"But I was around you all the time, I -- "

"Louis -- "

"I should've been someone you trusted enough to tell," Louis continues. "I could've helped you, I could've -- "

Harry snaps, then, and he doesn't really mean to. "I was too fucking  _ stupid _ to even realize anything wrong was going on, alright? I know that probably sounds so -- so dumb, but I had no idea that she wasn't supposed to be doing what she was doing. And I did trust you, and I still do. Why else would I be telling you this right now?"

"You were seven. Of course you didn't know it was wrong." Louis frowns and grabs his hand, squeezing it gently. Harry stares down at it, trying to calm down. "And she was your mum. She was supposed to protect you."

Harry doesn't know what to say at this point, so sits on his bed, taking Louis with him. They sit on the edge of the bed, neither of them knowing what to say. 

"I'm sorry for pushing you to tell me so much," Louis whispers, after a few minutes. "You were right. I feel like a prick."

Harry just lets out a deep breath. 

"And it makes sense when you moved. And why you didn't want anything to do with home. And why you got so mad at me for talking about your mum." He laughs quietly. "It almost even makes sense why you tried to kill yourself."

Of course he brought that up. He's never going to move past that. But it's alright, for right now. That's part of Harry's story, too. 

"And it especially makes sense why you freaked out with Luke, and why you panicked with me." 

Harry cringes. "God, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Louis asks, sounding disbelieving. "Why are  _ you  _ apologizing?"

"'Cause I'm probably gonna freak out again, and you shouldn't have to deal with someone who has those kind of issues."

"That's just dumb," Louis murmurs. "I love you, H. A few things we have to work a little harder at doesn't make you a burden."

He nods, for the sole purpose of this conversation ending. He's tired now, and he wants to sleep and wake up in a world where Louis does know. It's confusing, because he's glad he told Louis, but he still wishes he hadn't. 

"Can we just go to sleep?" Harry asks him, sounding needy.

Louis nods, and then they get comfortable under the blankets together. Louis makes it a little awkward -- "Are you comfortable with us cuddling? Is this okay? Are you okay?" -- but eventually, Harry falls asleep with Louis' arms wound tight around him. 

He wakes around two in the morning to the glow of Louis' phone screen. 

He blinks, his eyes trying to adjust to the bright light. His eyes are too bleary to figure out what Louis' doing, so he just scoots closer to Louis and curls up behind him. Louis curses and turns his phone off, turns to face Harry again and starts rubbing at Harry's arm. 

"Did I wake you? Sorry," he whispers, and Harry shakes his head before he tucks it against Louis' back. 

"It's fine. But why are you awake?"

Louis laughs quietly. "I can't sleep. I can't even think about sleeping."

Harry frowns. "Louis. . . "

"It feels like my whole life just got turned upside down," he says, and then mutters a curse under his breath. "And I'm not trying to make this about me, it's just -- Helen was like another parent to me, and I've never had anything other than fond memories of her, and now I just. Now all I can see is a monster. All I can see is what she did to you.” He shakes his head and squeezes Harry's arm. "Fourteen years isn't nearly fucking enough."

"It's more than most people like her get."

And it's true. It's sickening, but it's true.

Louis shifts so he's facing Harry, and immediately, like it's all he knows how to do, Harry readjusts so he's cuddled up to Louis again, this time with his head on his chest. Louis' fingers comb through Harry's hair gently. 

"I could never make sense of it," Louis murmurs quietly. "I always tried to think of some scenario that would just make it all make sense, make everything you've done seem justified, and I. . . I couldn't. I think the one thing I went back to the most is that maybe you were hooked on some nasty drug, and that you went to London for rehab, but. . . The theory always seemed stupid. I never really had any idea." He exhales loudly. "Not once did I even consider that you were sexually assaulted, and never would I have thought it was by your own mother."

"That's okay," Harry whispers, a little awkwardly. He's not sure what else to say. 

Louis shakes his head, his fingers still scratching Harry's scalp softly. "I don't know if it is."

"It wasn't your job to notice, or, like, consider it," Harry argues, sitting up. He crosses his legs and stares down at Louis, which makes his eyes strain because of the dark. Louis' hand goes to rest on his knee. "None of it is your fault. In any way."

"I was supposed to protect you," Louis whispers sadly. "I always tried so hard to protect you."

"That wasn't your responsibility."

"But it was," Louis says, insistent. "I'm older, and you were -- you were so sensitive and cautious about everything. I was your best friend, I should've -- "

"Stop," Harry interrupts. When Louis stays silent, Harry sighs quietly. "The only people whose job it was to protect me is my mum and my dad's," Harry says, trying to keep his tone even, even though he wants so badly to shout at Louis until he understands that he's not the one to blame. That'd be so much easier, he thinks. "And when my dad left, he gave up that responsibility. So it was just my mum. She was supposed to be the one to protect me. Not you or Gemma or anybody else. As my parent, that was her job. And she failed. She failed  _ me _ . And that's nobody's fault but hers."

He's pretty sure that's how Nancy explained it to him, anyway. It's hard to remember. 

"But how did nobody realize she was capable of that?" Louis asks, sounding angry. "She's a fucking  _ pedophile _ . A child sex offender. That's the type of behavior you usually pick up on. But nobody, not one person, even thought about it. How is that possible?"

"Because she was kind," Harry says quietly, feeling oddly choked up. Helen was, though. She was always so kind, to everyone, but especially to him. 

Louis takes his hand of Harry's knee and sits up quickly. " _ Clearly _ , she wasn't. How could you think that?"

"She was, though, Louis," Harry argues. "Helen was kind and gentle and understanding. She was considerate, and she treated everyone like they were family." He swallows thickly. "She isn't an entirely bad person, I don't think. She just did a really bad thing."

"Consciously and continuously," Louis points out. "There's no way she didn't know what she was doing was fucked, she must've -- "

"I'm not justifying what she did," Harry interrupts sternly. He's not going to sit here and listen to Louis try to explain to him something he accepted a long time ago: that his mother chose to do those things to him. That she was okay with it. "I'll never do that. And I think she's a disgusting human being for what she did, but that doesn't have to mean she was all bad, because she wasn't. And that's why nobody realized what she was doing to me."

"I guess that makes sense," Louis says quietly. He doesn't understand yet, that much is evident. He's trying to take it all in, but that's impossible to do all at once. He's far too early in all this to accept that Helen is not completely evil, or that he's not the one to blame. And, of course, Harry doesn't mind that. He doesn't mind it all. It took himself years to digest everything; he's not going to rush Louis on this.

They get settled back into bed. Louis spoons him from behind, and Harry rests his hands over Louis’ arms that are wrapped around his middle. He’s too wound up to sleep now, and he figures that Louis is as well, so he tries to say something useful. 

“I’m sorry that it took me so long to tell you,” he says, staring into the dark space of his room. “It was just. . . hard, obviously. To tell you something that was going to completely change the way you think about me.”

Louis squeezes him tightly. “Nothing you can tell me would make me love you any less, Harry.  _ Nothing _ . And especially not this.”

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles, feeling a bit awkward. He wants to be saying these profound things to Louis, but he doesn’t have the words to.

A few minutes of silence pass before Louis breaks it.

“The hand job I gave you when we were younger,” Louis starts, and Harry can’t help but puff out a laugh. “Did that. . . Do you remember being uncomfortable? Did I make you feel like she does now?”

“No,” Harry spits out immediately, because _ no _ . That’s so far from the truth. “No, Louis. I promise you. I wasn’t uncomfortable with you.”

“But I’m older than you,” Louis says. He sounds so scared. “Two years is nothing now, but I was -- I was fifteen, and you were only thirteen, I -- I had no business messing around with you like that, especially when you were so -- ”

“Louis,” he interrupts. He has to make him understand. “I promise you, love. I promise you. I wasn’t uncomfortable. I liked it. I liked it a lot. It. . . It made me feel special.” He drops a kiss to Louis’ forearm. In response, Louis presses a kiss to his shoulder. “You didn’t ask me to kiss you or touch you afterwards, and that was new for me. It made me feel good about myself. And I think. . . I think if you would have asked me to, I would’ve done it, and I don’t think I would’ve been uncomfortable. You were my best friend, Lou. Still are.”

“Okay,” Louis whispers. He still sounds a little shaky. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Harry asks.

“Okay.” Louis curls tighter around him, and he lets out a quiet breath. “Try to sleep, darling. You’ve had a rough day. You can sleep now.”

Letting Louis in entirely is harder than Harry thought it would be. 

Telling him about Helen was the hardest part, and since he got passed that, he thought it'd be easy from there on out between them, but it's not. It’s not like telling him magically made everything better. Weeks pass, and the tension between them doesn't fade. Louis' still processing it, still figuring out how to look at Harry as a victim of child abuse, and Harry's trying desperately not to listen to his instincts that are telling him to shut Louis out. It's just so scary, Louis knowing. Everything in Harry is telling him to run. And he won't, of course. He wouldn't tell Louis that just to leave him with it. 

When two months pass and the feeling like there's a giant elephant in the room hasn't passed, Harry decides to tell Louis more. To tell him about Jack, his rocky relationship with Gemma, Dr. Connie -- every traumatic event he's ever experienced, except for what he did to Niall. He's pretty sure he'll never share that story with anyone. 

He expects it to lead to an open and honest discussion, for Louis to take the opportunity to ask any questions he might be too scared to, and all it really seems to do is make Louis so much more  _ angry _ . With himself, with Helen, with the world. It’s scary, almost, how angry he gets. Especially when Harry tells him about Jack. ( _ “He did  _ what _? And you were only sixteen? What a fucking pervert. You should find him. You should find him and get him arrested.” _ ) And Harry's past is the only thing Louis can think about anymore, and before it can wear Louis down too much, Harry sits him down to have another talk. 

"There's more?" Louis asks, sounding terrified, when Harry pauses their game and tells Louis they need to talk. He turns to Harry, eyes wide, and Harry knows he's making the right decision. 

He sets his controller down, grabs both of Louis' hands, and squeezes them tight. He needs Louis to understand that he's not coming into this conversation at a selfish angle. 

"I think. . . " Harry gives him a gentle, sad smile. "I think maybe you need a break from this."

Louis furrows his eyebrows, confused. "From what, exactly?"

"Me," Harry answers honestly. "I think maybe you need time to, like, digest this, and I think you'll be able to do that easier if you weren't so close to me right now."

Louis' confusion deepens. "What do you mean?"

"I think distancing yourself from me would be good for you," Harry says, heart squeezing painfully. And, in an odd way, him being hurt by this makes him feel good about himself. He's built about a relationship with someone that he physically aches at the thought of losing -- that's progress, right? He has Luke, but this -- this is different. He's let Louis into his mind, had opened the floodgates for him, and he wants Louis to stay right here next to him for forever. 

Louis pulls back, looking angry. He scoffs, mumbling something under his breath, and stands, shaking his head. "Are you serious?"

Harry blinks. "I just -- "

"If you regret telling me everything, I'm sorry, but I didn't ask you to. I didn't pressure you into telling me anything, so you can't -- " Louis looks a bit helpless. "You can't punish me for regretting telling me. That's not fair."

"I'm not," Harry denies immediately, standing up. He grabs Louis' hand again, pulling him closer. That's not it at all. "I don't regret telling you." Most days, anyway.

Louis furrows his eyebrows. "Then why do you want to break up?"

"I didn't say break up," he corrects with an urgency that surprises even him. "I don't -- I don't want that. At all. That's not what I said." 

Louis just stares at him, clearly at a loss. 

"You aren't handling this well," Harry says, trying to explain. As soon as he says it, he regrets putting it like that, and that regret strengthens when he sees Louis' face fall. "I don't mean it like that, Lou. There's not a right way to deal with hearing something like that, I understand that."

"I'm sorry if I haven't seemed more supportive," Louis whispers, reaching out to touch Harry's cheek. Harry grabs his hand and pulls it away from his face so that he's got both of Louis' hands again. 

"You have, you have, love, that's not what I meant, I promise."

A week or two ago, Harry had a massive panic attack in his room for literally no fucking reason, and he felt safe enough with Louis to text him for help. That means the world to Harry, and the fact that Louis immediately came to his aid meant even more. He understood that Harry didn't want to be touched almost immediately, didn't have to be told twice, and he had laid in bed with him for hours, just whispering to him quietly. When Harry stopped feeling nauseous, Louis went out to buy them coffee and donuts and then they laid in bed some more, watching shit TV. 

_ That's _ support.  _ That's _ love. And that's all Harry needs. It's all he's ever needed. 

"I don't regret telling you at all," Harry whispers, and he means it so, so much. "It's just. . . this is my shit, you know? And it's a lot to handle. A lot to process. I know that. And I don't -- I don't want it wearing you down. I don't want you feeling bad all the time. So, all I meant to say is that if -- if you want to spend some time apart to get your thoughts straight, I can live with that, and I want you to do that for yourself."

He wants to continue, but he's not sure what he wants to say, and he's starting to feel a little hot, which is usually the first sign that his brain is working too hard. 

"I've spent enough time away from you, don't you think?" Louis asks, a small smile on his face. He's not judging Harry for leaving, not anymore. He understands.  _ He understands. _ "Maybe I haven't been coping with this too great, but that's not because of anything else other than me hating that you've had to go through that. Through any of that." He squeezes Harry's hands tightly, and Harry lets himself drift into the weight of it. "And to be honest, I think being away from you would just make it worse. I need to see that you're okay."

"I am," Harry promises. "I am. You don't need to worry about me."

Louis rolls his eyes fondly and shakes his head. "Please," he scoffs, pulling Harry in for a hug. Harry goes easily, and he pushes down the sense of panic that rolls through his stomach. It's getting easier to do that. 

A few minutes later, they abandon their game entirely for hiding away under the blankets of Louis' bed. Louis holds him close, and they don't say anything for a long, long time. 

Their peace is interrupted by Louis' roommate coming in to grab a few textbooks. "I'm leaving, promise," Matt says, and Harry suspects Louis glared at him or motioned for him to hurry up. Harry can't see, because he's literally burrowed under the covers and he's not in the mood to face a stranger when he feels so vulnerable, so he stays there, surrounded by the warmth of Louis' body. 

Matt leaves, and as soon as the door shuts, Louis lifts up the blankets to look at him. "You must be suffocating in there," he says, reaching down to pet Harry's hair. 

Harry shakes his head, nuzzling his face against Louis' chest like that proves anything. "I'm not," he denies, although he's kind of thankful when Louis doesn't pull the covers back over his head. 

"Thank you," Harry whispers, and Louis knows he's not just thanking him for the blanket. 

Louis shushes him. "Thank  _ you _ ," he corrects softly.

Harry doesn't know what that means, but he knows it's supposed to be good, so he closes his eyes and just soaks in the feeling. 

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is my baby, and it means a lot to me. i hope you enjoy it :)


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